Looking Forward
by The Pen-Wielding Gunslinger
Summary: A soldier returns home from a long tour in Anchorage, assigned to a mission of utmost importance. The Great War looms on the horizon. Military intelligence claims strange productions being shipped out of the Big MT Research Facility. Lee must infiltrate the Sierra Madre Casino and discover what exactly Frederick Sinclair is hiding, before the War tears the world apart.
1. Chapter 1

All right. So. This whole thing came to me as part of a dream, and I sat down at 2:30 AM to scribble it.  
This whole thing is another experiment, a Pre-War story featuring an OC who interacts with many characters and ties them together in obviously non-canon ways. I may have mutilated the official timeline a little. But there's Charon, so it's all good. Everything is awesome with Charon in it.  
Please review and tell me what you think. I appreciate any criticism.

And a huge thank-you to Corpus Carrion, who served as my beta, fixing my awkward sentences and question plot points that made no sense. I wouldn't have been able to do this without your help.

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**Chapter 1**

**June 27, 2077:**

It was a hundred degrees outside. The May sunshine glared down on the cracked pavement beneath my feet, reflecting a silky sheen of light like accumulated oil. The ground and the air were hot enough to roast me in my clothes.

The sun hung low in a stark blue sky so faded, it appeared almost white. There was just the faintest indication of the brilliant ruby-red sunset that would occur in an hour or so; the shadows were a little longer than they were at noontime, stretched sharp and thin along the ground, and the bright white trim on the faded awnings of the Garber Drugstore had begun to turn orange, saturated with that vivid sunset light. I thought instantly of the old song my mother had loved, a golden oldie called _I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire. _Looking out at my hometown for the first time in years, I had to wonder if the world wasn't already busy burning.

It was a hot day for May, and as I sat in the parking lot of the local fast food pit, I thought for a second that I had never been hotter. Sweat dripped down my face. I really should have rented a car. At least then I could have had some shelter.

The fast food joint was called The Cheeseburger Palace, and it had become wildly popular in the last four years or so. It was one of sixteen of its kind spread out within a hundred-mile radius. In big cities, you could find one on every corner, but Sioné was anything but a big city. We boast less than fifteen hundred residents and there is little tourism to speak of. Who would want to look at Sioné? It's a town of some ugliness, so aggressively All-American that you just want to scream on every Fourth of July as the fat, old, Republican mayor rambles on about the duties of "true American citizens." Besides the world's largest Nuka-Cola bottle over in Van City, there were really no points of interest in the entire county.

I could feel the heat baking into my boots as I stood up and crossed the parking lot. The sun reflected off the mirrored sunglasses I'd bought in Pop Reginald's convenience store on Mercer Street—the same store that, as a kid, I had shoplifted from on many an occasion. Me and my little "gang," three perfectly ordinary kids from a perfectly ordinary housing development a mile off Main Street. There was me, with my boy's clothes and the eternal pack of cigarettes in my jacket; Salvatore Marino, my next-door neighbor; and Dee, of course. Scrawny, boyish Dee, handsome even at ten when we first met, and handsomer still when he left Sioné at sixteen. I hadn't seen Dee in years. Sal, however, I was going to see right now.

The Cheeseburger Palace stood nearly empty in the center of a parking lot where there had once been a bar. I didn't feel like going inside. I ambled around the building to the drive-thru with my hands in my pockets, and stopped at the speaker. "What can I get you, hon?" asked a sweet voice.

"Two chicken sandwiches, a Palace Deluxe, extra-large fries, large chocolate milkshake, and a Cinnamon Twisty." There was silence on the other end. I waited for a moment. "My friend?"

"Twenty-six fifty." The voice sounded shocked. Why? Was that a huge order or something? "Please pull forward." I shrugged and moseyed around to the window, where a large woman in a blue-and-yellow Cheeseburger Palace shirt stood waiting inside by the cash register. She blinked at me and adjusted the enormous headset clamped over her hair. She was probably confused about my distinct, obvious lack of a car. "Did you just . . . .?"

I nodded and offered her the money. She reached down to accept it, and as her fat fingers brushed against mine, I noted her expression, watched her visibly flinch as we made contact. She turned her impressive bulk around to put the money in the register behind her. I stood on my toes and leaned through the window, putting my hands up on the frame, and braced my weight against the wall. When she turned around, she and I were practically nose to nose. She squeaked and stepped back.

"I need to talk to your manager, doll," I said smoothly. Disgust crossed her face. Obviously she thought I was . . . the other way. But the endearment had just slipped out. I guess it was part of coming home at last. Picking up the old habits. It's what I used to call Dee. He'd liked that, liked the way it made his ego feel. An attractive fellow is a successful one, he'd always said. He liked to feel attractive.

God, I missed Dee.

The woman frowned. Her small eyes narrowed. "He's in a meeting," she said, sounding suspicious.

It was an automatic lie— the managers only reported to their superiors on Tuesdays, right before the staff meetings. It was a Sunday afternoon. But this lady didn't know I'd already done my research. That was fine. It was her job. I kept my smile in place. "Trust me, doll," I said, liking the way annoyance flashed across her face, "your manager will want to see me." I knew I was being condescending, but I couldn't help myself.

I heard a honk behind me. A red-faced guy was leaning out of a vividly-blue Corvega. "Hey!" he yelled at me. "We've got to eat! Get out of the way."

I gritted my teeth and rounded on him. Training dictated I should either ignore or subdue anyone who interfered with my job. This civilian was not a threat, so I settled for something in between. Digging in my pocket again, I produced a round, shiny gold badge in a smart leather wallet. "Be patient, sir," I chided.

Incredibly, he had the balls to step out of his car and advance on me. "We got a problem?" he asked. Normally I would attempt to intimidate him with physical harm, as per my training, but he was no soldier or punk. He looked like an accountant at the end of a long day in the office, a short man with the beginning of a potbelly, balding, his shirt rumpled, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. I could almost hear Dee sneer. Dee had _always _been well-dressed. Classiness went with attractiveness, or so he used to say.

I sighed and tapped my badge. "Know what this means?" I asked him. "I'm working government business." Not precisely true, but this guy didn't know better. "I have the authority to shut this place down and question everyone on the premises." _If only I have probable cause and permission from my superior_, I added silently to myself. "So you can do one of three things. You can wait patiently like a good little citizen, you can back out and find a different place to eat, or I can waste both your time and mine by stopping service and detaining every one of you while I finish my business." I spoke as politely as possible, but I could feel myself losing my temper. "It's up to you, buddy," I added. The man huffed and stomped back to his car. Evidently he decided to wait.

Satisfied, I looked back up at the bewildered cashier. "Can I see the manager now, sweetheart?" I asked her wickedly.

She pursed her lips. "Come in the back entrance," she said, and hurried out of sight, probably to warn her superior of my arrival.

I strolled around to the back door and pushed my way through the crowded kitchen, careful not to disturb the Mister Handy food-prep robots as they rushed back and forth. They worked alongside humans here. I liked that. RobCo made everything a little more modern, even in this dump of a town, without stealing too many of our precious jobs. One of the employees pointed to the manager's office. I knocked on the door.

"Come in?" said a confused voice. I opened the door.

The room was occupied by a single man drowning in an ocean of paper. He was seated at a desk, but looked up upon my entrance. I saw his dark eyes widen behind his wire-rim spectacles.

The last time I'd seen Sal, he'd been a boy of nineteen, sneaking sips of champagne at his sister's wedding. This Sal had lost the ponytail, the silver earring, the leather jackets and motorcycle boots. This Sal's hair was cropped short and greased back like a respectable member of society's. He wore a white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, revealing his hairy wrists. There was ink on his hands. His blue tie lay over his shoulders like a scarf. He opened his mouth and closed it again, unable to speak.

For a second I stood in the doorway, unsure what to say or how he'd react. It had been a long time. The way he looked at me, I'll admit—the wonder and elation in his eyes made me smile. A huge weight rolled off my chest. It was Sal, _my _Sal, the boy I'd grown up with.

"Lee?" he said wonderingly. He stood up, sending papers everywhere across the cheap carpet. "Oh my God! It _is _you!" He moved around the desk with arms outstretched, a skinny man in the type of suit we'd once sworn never to wear.

I wiped my eyes discreetly. "Hey, big guy," I said, sliding into his embrace. He slapped me on the back like one of his fellows. "Good to see ya."

"Good to see _you_!" he replied enthusiastically. Then he held me out at arm's length and commented, "You're looking fit."

I laughed. "I have to be," I said. I indicated my clothes. "What do you think I'm wearing this for? Fun?"

He sighed. "Still doing the military thing, huh?" he asked. "Those clothes don't suit you."

"Actually I think they look perfect. I mean, look at these boots." I pointed to the heavy, black-leather monstrosities on my feet. "Steel toes, reinforced, with built-in dagger sheaths." The rest of my uniform was pretty standard for my division. Black pants, olive drab t-shirt, black jacket, black fingerless gloves. I'd forgotten how to dress like a civilian. "I mean, I look like I could be back in our little gang again."

I meant it as a joke, but Sal didn't smile.

"What?" I asked, puzzled.

"Too clean-cut," he murmured, picking a thread off my vest. "Looks unnatural."

"Speak for yourself," I retorted. I was a little aggravated now. "What happened to the ponytail?"

He frowned at me. "You're too military," he said.

I had no response for that. I ducked my head and scuffed my boot on the carpet. "I couldn't duck the draft," I said, embarrassed. "You know that."

"Yes, you could," said Sal. There was no anger in his voice, but his disappointment made me feel ashamed. "You could have ducked the draft, Lee, because you're a—"

"Yes, I know," I interrupted. "But I'd never have been able to serve my country otherwise. I accepted my accidental instatement and I turned out to be good." Impulsively I took his hand. I didn't care if he had a wife and four kids, Sal was my best friend, and I'd touch him if I wanted to. "I'm one of the best, Sal."

Sal shrugged and took his hand away. "But you left us," he said.

I frowned. "I'm sorry."

Sal nodded and sat down at his desk. He looked like an old man now, and that frightened me. Planting his forearms on a pile of papers, he leaned forward and watched me intently. "Jen told me you used the drive-thru."

"Yep!" I said, exaggerating my cheerfulness.

Sal rolled his eyes. "Lee, you do realize this place is practically empty, right?"

"Yeah, but I wanted you to know I was here."

"You just wanted to look a little strange and draw attention to yourself, didn't you?" I nodded. "Of course you did. Anything for attention, right Lee?"

I coughed lightly. "Of course."

Sal sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're ridiculous sometimes." He fiddled with a pen. "So, I know you're probably not here to catch up . . . ."

"Well, partly," I admitted. I sat in the chair and put my feet up on the one clear space of desk. "This is business _and _pleasure, my friend. I've missed you."

Sal smiled at last. It was a distracted, bittersweet smile, but it erased years off his face. He relaxed into his chair. "I've missed you too, Lee," he said. "Now, tell me what you want to know."

"I'm looking for the Major."

Sal rubbed the back of his head. His watch glinted in the light, momentarily distracting me. "I thought you military types know how to keep track of your employees," he mumbled.

The Major was not an actual major. Since we were teenagers, it was what we'd called him. I have no idea where he got the name. He was the mastermind of all the illegal activities in Sioné and the surrounding areas. Drugs mostly. Selling cigarettes and booze to kids. I'd bought from him before. He was a genius, really, too smart for a small town like ours. He'd been drafted into the military and gotten involved in some project. The armed forces had a grudging respect for his operation, illegal or not, and they offered him a clean record if he worked with some scientists in Montana or someplace. Upon his arrival he'd fallen off the grid. He could have been sequestered in some secret military research unit, but as far as _my _division knew, he was gone without a trace. There was a rumor that he'd gotten too friendly with the Reds.

"I haven't seen the Major," said Sal. "I don't want to, either. That guy is . . . bad."

A six-foot-seven bear of a man, the Major could lift poor skinny guys like Sal with one hand and throw him like a javelin. The Major tried to wear clothes that concealed his bulk, but you could see the muscles lying under his dark skin like the cables on a suspension bridge. He didn't speak much, except when he did business. I had liked him a little, because he would share a butt with me, but even I was wary of him.

"He was," I admitted. "No one knows where he is. They said he might be here. That was the last intelligence we received."

Sal tilted his head. One eye twitched. "How do you lose a guy of that size?"

I shrugged. "Only the military, huh?" I joked.

Sal doodled on a spare scrap of paper, pondering on my information. "Well . . . I don't know where he is. But . . . maybe Dee . . . ."

"Oh God," I said, "I haven't thought of Dee in a while." That was a blatant lie. I'd been thinking of Dee more and more over the last few weeks. "Have you seen him?"

"Hell no," said Sal, "Good old Dee doesn't have time to come to this town. You think he'd be ordering a Deluxe from the Cheeseburger Palace menu? Rich guys don't have time for small towns, even if they grew up here."

I chuckled. "No," I said, "probably not. He liked fast food when we were kids, but now I bet he eats caviar every night. Probably has a sexy lady serving him each course. I'm thinking French Maid." I put my hand behind my head in a dramatic pose. Sal bellowed laughter. That was what I loved about Sal. It didn't take much to amuse him.

"Good old Dee," said Sal fondly. His eyes were misty, lost in memories. He looked just like the old Sal I remembered. For a moment, I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. "Remember when the three of us went down to the creek to smoke, and Dee lit your hair on fire, and then he panicked and threw you into the creek?"

We broke into laughter. "I'd forgotten about that," I said. "But I do remember dragging him in after me and ducking him under."

It didn't seem so long ago that we had been a group of misfits hanging together on warm afternoons, our school work done for another blissful summer, our backpacks hanging forgotten in dusty closets. That had been an extremely hot day, probably even hotter than today. Dee had been humiliated, but he had apologized like a gentleman after we both hauled our sodden bodies out of the frigid water. Then we had all laughed, and on that day, it seemed as if the laughter and joy would go on forever.

"Only you could do that," commented Sal. He was turning a pen over and over in his fingers, not looking at me, as if he didn't quite dare to meet my eye. "He had quite a crush on you, Lee. You could get away with _anything_."

"He did not," I retorted.

"He did," he replied. "Remember when we went to prom? He was your date. I mean, yeah, I was there too, but _he _held your arm on the way in. I just stood next to you. I mean, he even _dressed _like you, Lee. Black suit, red vest, red tie. All the girls were so jealous. _Dee _looked pleased, but Samantha Bale and Tina Roux were ready to punch you."

"They thought Dee was _aw'fly_ handsome," I drawled. Sam had been an alright girl, but Tina Roux was a Grade-A bitch. "When the three of us walked in . . . well, we knew Dee could have been a popular kid if we hadn't been dragging him down the entire time."

"He liked you too much, Lee," said Sal. I stiffened; my smile vanished. "He let you drag him down because he wanted to be close to you."

"Don't guilt me, Sal," I said, starting to get mad. Sal's calm expression angered me; for some reason, it ignited that wild, familiar rage I'd unleashed time and time again on my parents and my older sister. I wanted to punch him, to leave bruises on that smooth, olive skin, to wipe that look of solemn wisdom off his face. He was a manager at a Cheeseburger Palace, for God's sake, not some kind of all-knowing oracle. "I didn't _ask _Dee to have a crush on me."

"You knew, then."

I squirmed in my chair, abruptly interested in the fish-shaped glass paperweight on his desk. The blue and gold dye in the fish's body twisted and flowed along the rippled scales. "I knew," I muttered, still staring at the fish. It seemed to be mocking me. I briefly considered throwing it at Sal. He had reduced me to the teenager I had been not so long ago, the sullen, awkward kid with a cigarette habit and a penchant for violence. "I knew. He . . . we . . . we discussed it."

"And?"

"And nothing!" I barked. I slammed my hand down on the table, making the fish rattle. Sal flinched, his eyes wary. I didn't care. I kept yelling. "We talked, and we talked, and then we said our goodbyes and split up and I didn't see him again until I saw his face plastered on the evening news."

An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Now it was awkward again. I'd hoped the years would ease some of the wounds, making the bad things a little easier to remember, even if I couldn't move on from them. But it seemed to have deepened the resentment. The wounds hadn't healed, they'd turned into scars; old, twisted, bitter things that I'd tried so hard to forget.

"I'm sorry, Sal," I said.

Sal shifted in his seat. "Consider talking to Dee," he said at last. His voice was at least steady again. I was grateful for that. "Dee and the Major got along fairly well. Plus, it'll do you good to see Dee. He's got connections. He's a big man, now. Do you know where he lives?"

"Who doesn't?" I asked with a forced chuckle. "All I have to do is go to Hollywood and look for the house with the huge crowd of rabid fangirls out front!"

We smiled at one another for the last time as I stood up and Sal did the same. We stood facing each other stiffly for a moment, and then Sal held out his arms. I hugged him fiercely. "I'll see you soon," I promised in a whisper. I couldn't let go of my anger, but that didn't mean I wouldn't let Sal know how much he meant to me.

Sal slapped me on the back. "You'd better." He released me. "Good bye, Lee."

"Good bye, Sal." I grinned. "I like your fish, by the way." Without waiting for a response, I left the office.

The same fat cashier I'd startled earlier met me outside Sal's door with a pout on her lips. The other employees looked up as soon as I closed the door, watching me like small, wary creatures watch a predator. Suddenly self-conscious, I scuffed my boots on the floor. I tried to appear like I still felt confident, but their expressions made me uncomfortable. I didn't feel like a teenager anymore; I felt like a kid of ten who has caught the unwanted attention of a stern and irate teacher. "This is for you," said the woman, shoving a bag and a cup at me. She stalked off without wishing me a nice day. I escaped from the Cheeseburger Palace in subdued silence.

The milkshake came in a waxed container. It was cold and good, loaded with sugar. I drank half standing outside the Cheeseburger Palace back entrance, leaning on the whitewashed wall with one boot propped up against the white brick foundation. One of the workers came out with an armload of boxes and gave me a nasty look, so I made a quick getaway down Carter Avenue toward my motel. Once upon a time, a little teenage punk named Lee worked at that very motel, cleaning rooms and organizing laundry for two dollars an hour. Nowadays, I was the guest. I unlocked my door and slipped into the threadbare room. Government allotments for lodging had never been very high, and there was still only one motel in Sioné, so I was stuck. I put the food on the table, took a can of beer from the mini fridge, and cracked it open. _Funny, _I thought, _Last time I was in Sioné I was too young to buy beer._

_Old enough to die for your country though, _spoke up another voice. I ignored it. It was just the memory of my sullen, hateful, rebellious teenage self, an old ghost too stupid and bullheaded to stay dead.

Heaving a sigh, I reached for the phone on the end table and dialed my superior. I waited through two sharp buzzes. There was a click. "Office of General Jameson Gray. How can I help you?"

I groaned silently. I recognized that deep voice. "Charon," I said. "Since when do you answer phones?"

"General Gray is in a meeting. He requested my presence at the phone. His secretary is busy."

I chuckled and twisted the phone cord around in my fingers. "And what happens if he dies while he's in there, Charon? Aren't you bound to him?"

There was a long silence. "State your business," said Charon crisply.

Damn Charon. Couldn't take a joke to save his life. I sighed. "I wanted to tell General Gray that I made it to Sioné. I spoke with my friend Sal. He suggested I go to Hollywood. I'm going to go there as soon as the general gives me clearance."

There was a pause. "Understood."

"Thanks." I peered at my reflection in a spotted mirror that hung over the disheveled double bed and fussed with my hair. "Eh, Charon?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"I'm sorry about the joke. I'm not trying to insinuate that you're . . . inept or something." I stuck my tongue out at my reflection. What the hell was I doing?

Again one of those pauses. I disliked talking to Charon, both over the phone and in person, because he reminded me forcibly of one of those computers, the ones that spoke to you. They always took a second to process your words before calculating their response. Charon was like that. I suppose it was his programming, or discipline, or whatever. But I still hated it. It made him seem like less of a man.

"Good bye."

Charon hung up. I rolled my eyes and slammed the receiver down. Charon's emotionless voice always frustrated me. The very fact of his servitude to the general made me sick. I rubbed the back of my neck with a groan of pleasure. The massage felt good on the tight muscles. Glancing at the Cheeseburger Palace bag, I realized glumly that I didn't feel hungry anymore. Talking to Charon had ruined my appetite. Damn, and I really wanted that Cinnamon Twisty, too. I put the bag in the fridge. The food seemed to be mocking me, much like that stupid fish of Sal's. I flopped down on the bed and threw my arm over my eyes. Oh, Sioné. How I did not miss you.

I couldn't wait for General Gray to call. I just wanted to get out of here. It was too full of memories. Everywhere I went, I thought of the past. On Mercer Street, I'd been beaten by Tina Roux's older brother the day after prom, on Tina's orders. At the Cheeseburger Palace, where there had once been a bar, I had smoked cigarettes with Dee, Sal, and Sal's older brother Jeremy, in the alley out back. At this very hotel, in the laundry room downstairs, Dee and I—

I kicked that thought away. _Shut up_, my mind ordered. I rolled over on my side and tucked my hand under the pillow. _Come on. Call, for the love of God . . . I can't stay in this town anymore._ Yeah, but I didn't want to see Dee either. His very attitude was enough to drive me crazy. Seeing him again would probably kill me.

Oh well, at least I'd never have to talk to Charon again when I was dead.

When the phone rang ten minutes later, I practically threw myself at it. "Hello?" I said excitedly.

"You have been cleared to transfer." Charon's brisk voice leaked out of the speaker. "There is a train to Hollywood, California, at 6 AM tomorrow. Be on that train, please."

"Thank you, O Travel Agent of Extraordinary Skill," I said dryly.

". . . I do not understand."

"Don't worry about it, Charon, it was a joke. Have a good night."

"Thank you?" Charon sounded confused. My heart instantly went out to him. Poor guy probably hadn't had anybody wish him a good night in years. I liked Charon, just not the way he had to live. He treated every kindness with uncertainty and wariness, as if he expected punishment quick on the heels of any polite thing aimed in his direction. I was never rude to him if I could help it. At first I tried to be his friend, but when I discovered that was impossible, I had to settle for cordiality.

"You're welcome, Charon," I said, trying to be gentle. "Good night."

"Good night."

Charon hung up. I put the phone down and started to undress. I needed at least twenty minutes in the morning to shower and double-check my things, but I wanted to be at the train station early. At least when I was sitting there, on that uncomfortable wooden bench, I could pretend I was a little farther away from my past, and a little closer to Hollywood. Closer to Dee.

As soon as my head touched the pillow, I realized that I really wanted that Cinnamon Twisty.

Sleep could wait. Sloppy fast food, on the other hand, could not.

Yum. Calories.

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**So. Not nearly as confident about this piece as the others I've written. It's another extreme experiment. Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

Yay Chapter 2!

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**Chapter 2 **

I awoke in the darkness at two AM, my heart pounding too fast, my breathing harsh and choked, shrieking in and out of my desperate lungs.

I'd dreamed of the day down at the creek. In my mind's eye I saw the amber sunshine falling through the flawless, emerald-green leaves, and felt it warm my tanned face. I swatted at a mosquito that dared to land near my ankle. I saw my childish fifteen-year-old legs, skinny and birdlike, covered with old, faded denim shorts. They were really too short, I knew, for someone my age. But at fifteen, I'd just wanted to be a kid. I wasn't ready to grow up.

Dee was leaning on the tree beside me, his broad shoulder rubbing up against mine. Sal was above our heads, sitting in the tree, eating an apple and chatting. I saw Dee light the cigarette, cupping his hand around the lighter to keep the wind away. I remembered thinking about that, wondering what it would be like to hold his hand. How it would feel in mine. Hastily I pretended to retie my shoelace to push those thoughts away.

Then, suddenly, I was in the air with Dee's hands clasped around my forearms. Before I could even cry out, I landed in the creek with a huge splash. I gasped and sputtered, spitting up cold, clear water and slimy river mud. I stood up and turned around, my fists clenched, my rage a red, screaming monster in my head, ready to tear Dee apart. But the sight of him standing there, thin and lanky, cigarette hanging on his lip, his eyes huge with shock and apprehension, made me forget all my anger. I laughed, hard, and after a moment, Dee and Sal joined me. We laughed together under that beautiful sun, and when Dee offered his hand to pull me out, I'd taken it.

And pulled him down into the water with me.

He yelled and splashed and flailed, twisting in the water like an eel, yanking on my arm and pulling me down on top of him. We fell together into the water again, shouting, feeling like kids again. "I'm so, so sorry," Dee kept saying, and at last I forgave him and pulled his soggy body up onto the bank. Sal jumped out of the tree and observed us, Dee with his arm around my shoulders, me holding my belly and laughing. But Sal wasn't laughing. His eyes were fixed upon me, and as I looked down at myself, I saw what my mother called "my feminine figure"—my hips had begun to curve, and I was developing . . . elsewhere. Sure, every other girl in my class had the same features; I was a late bloomer. I tried to hide my meager attributes with baggy t-shirts and jackets. But suddenly Dee had stopped laughing too, and now he was looking, and blushing . . . and then I'd punched him, straight in the mouth, and he'd primly offered his jacket without a murmur of complaint.

Reflecting on it, I realized that Sal was right. If I had been any other person in the world, Dee would have cleaned my clock for me. Dee let me get away with everything. And I'd taken advantage of that.

Unable to sleep, I smoked cigarette after cigarette until five, then crawled reluctantly off the bed and stumbled into the shower. The water was cold, but that was fine. It woke me up better than coffee. I cleaned out the fridge and ate quickly, stowing my two remaining beer bottles in my shoulder-bag. As long as no one saw them, they'd be fine. I checked for my badge, my money, and my identification. Once I located them all, I called for a taxi and brought my belongings out into the parking lot. I'd left my key on the table in my room. That was how business was done in Sioné. Get out quietly, but politely. Don't screw everything up for everyone else.

The taxi driver proved to be the guy who had been our school's quarterback in my senior year. He was eager to catch up, for some strange reason. Probably because he thought that, as an adult, I'd forgotten all the times he'd hurt me, had called me a whore for hanging around two guys, had tried to tell Dee that he could have better friends if he ditched us. But good old Dee, impassive, had told Mister Quarterback to go to hell . . .

At 6 the train boarded. I was the first person on. I sat in a single seat and pulled out a book, but it wasn't long before I fell to dozing. The train steadily ate up the miles, putting distance between me and Sal, taking away the same distance between me and Dee. The slight sideways motion was enough to put me to sleep.

The cabin slowly filled up. I awoke not long after drifting off and, bored, starting watching the other travelers. Within an hour, everyone who had boarded at the Sioné stop with me had disembarked, except one young man. I squinted at him. His pale, pasty face was partially obscured by a newspaper, but I could swear he seemed familiar. I stood up and strolled over to him. He didn't move his head, but his eyes followed me. So did the eyes of everyone else in the silent cabin. I stood in front of him. "Excuse me, sir," I said, trying to be polite, "is your name Marcus?"

The man didn't look at me. "Marcus is my brother," he mumbled, turning a page. "I'm Aaron."

"Ah. Aaron." Aaron and Marcus Glass were old acquaintances, Marcus a year older than me, Aaron a year younger. We'd hung out from time to time, usually with Dee around. They were more Dee's friends than mine. "Have you seen the Major lately, Aaron?"

Aaron actually flinched. "No," he said, too quickly, "I haven't."

"I think you're lying, Aaron."

Aaron fixed me with an angry, desperate glare. "Shut up," he said. "Leave me alone." His eyes darted around the cabin, glancing over each of the other passengers in turn. They stared back, as citizens tend to do. Whenever they see something out of the ordinary, I guess they assume it will turn out to be entertaining. "Please."

I wouldn't let go. If Aaron wouldn't help I'd force the information out of him. I needed to know. Aaron and Marcus had served as the Major's messenger boys from time to time. "Aaron, are you going to see the Major?"

"No!" snapped Aaron. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Lee."

"Oh how sweet," I said, "you remembered my name. Been a couple years, hasn't it?"

Aaron was spooked now. His eyes widened. He shrank in his seat. "Go away," he said in a harsh whisper. "He'll kill me."

"Who?" I asked.

Aaron shook his head. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he was actually trembling. "Just stop, okay? I've got stuff to do."

"Aaron, please . . ."

The train rolled to a smooth stop. Aaron rose, snatched his suitcase, and all but bolted from his chair, out of the cabin and off the train. It happened too quickly for me to even follow. I groaned and threw myself back in my chair, rubbing my eyelids with my fingertips. So much for that. I'd have to call General Gray and get him to pick Aaron up, if the stupid rat didn't go into hiding. He knew something. Maybe he'd even been asked to keep an eye on me. If that were the case, it would be best to keep my eyes open.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

I looked up at the speaker, a man in a suit and fedora. "Yeah?"

The man tried to smile. He looked as though he expected a smack. "Miss, don't you think you're a little . . . underdressed . . . .?"

I'd been expecting this. Most women didn't head out-of-doors unless they were wearing an outfit—not just a blouse and skirt but an ensemble—and a matching hat. Several of the other women in the cabin had already given me nasty looks. They would never wear jeans in public; they were "proper" citizens. The role of women in society hadn't changed much in the last hundred years. They may have been allowed jobs to support their families in the midst of this war, but it was obvious that society still expected females to stay at home and clean while their men went off to work and to battle.

The man was still standing beside me. "I'm underdressed because I'm not wearing a skirt?" I asked. He nodded. "Well, that's the perk of being in the military. I'm in the Army, and I'm on an assignment."

The man's eyes widened. He muttered something unintelligible, possibly an apology, and slunk back to his seat. I closed my eyes. My fingertips found their way back to my lids of their own accord. This was going to be a long, long trip.

At the train station just outside Hollywood, I rented a car and drove to Dee's house. My faithful travel agent had given me turn-by-turn directions to the estate. Sometimes I was really grateful for Charon. I would have been lost without those directions. I snorted when my car topped the hill and the house came into view. Estate? This was far grander than an estate. It was a palace, surrounded by a wide, rich green lawn. Very tasteful, though. Very Dee. Modern, showy, but not vulgar. I liked his style instantly. The imposing black gate swung open as I drove toward it. Well, I thought, this is a warm welcome.

The gate may have opened for me, but the door did not. There was a burly man in a sophisticated blue uniform standing before the handsome double doors, and the moment I stepped up onto the wide front porch, he denied my entrance. I politely asked to come in. The guard refused me. I showed my badge. The guard refused me again. I stopped being polite.

"Look," I told him, "I need to come in and see him. You guys opened the gate for me, why won't you let me in the house?!"

"Security assumed you were the expected company. The master of the house is expecting the movie producer, Mister Lucas St. John, and his wife. Those guards will be fired for their incompetence."

I was glad I was wearing my mirrored lenses. The guy couldn't see how mad I was getting. I forced myself to laugh a little. "Oh man, security guards? Dee has gotten _paranoid_ . . . ."

"Miss," said the guard, rubbing the bridge of his wide nose, "please leave immediately. You are not the expected company. Your presence here is unauthorized and inappropriate. Do not make me force you out of here."

"I need to see him!" I protested. I was about an inch away from stamping my feel like a little kid having a tantrum. I'm no good at convincing people unless I have the upper hand. "I'm a friend, I promise. We grew up together. He knows me! Just . . . call him! Please?"

The guard growled with frustration and started to speak, but was interrupted by a squawk from the intercom system on the wall behind him. "Who is it?!" a clipped voice demanded. I felt a low tingling in the pit of my stomach. Oh, I recognized that accent all right. "What's taking so long?"

The guard pressed the button on the intercom. "Not your expected company, Sir," he said with strained patience, "You were misinformed. I'll send her away."

"Please do."

"Yes, Sir."

I leaned around the guard's bulk to glare at the intercom. "So it's 'Sir' now, is it?" I asked loudly. Silence. Hopefully, he could hear me. "You've come a long way from cigarettes and pilfered booze in the back alley of Maple's Bar. Remember that time we had to hide behind the dumpster because Maple's boyfriend came looking for us? You about wet yourself out of fear."

The guard remained frozen, possibly in horror at my defiance and daring. I hadn't noticed the camera bolted to the ceiling in the corner, but I did so now. It slowly panned over to look at me. That glass eye was a little spooky. I waited. There was a wash of static. "Lee?" asked the same light voice.

I pushed my sunglasses down to the edge of my nose and made eye-to-lens contact with the camera. "Hello, Dean," I said.

"Let her in," commanded Dean. "Right now!"

The guard threw up his hands. "Go in then," he grumbled. "I give up."

I stepped into the most spacious, refined, gorgeous hall I had ever seen. Dark wooden panels on the walls, velvet curtains, black-and-white tiled floor. Two flights of stairs, one on each side of the room, led up to the second floor. Dean was waiting on the balcony overlooking the front door, his arms crossed and planted on the railing, the picture of leisure. As soon as I saw him, I melted a little. He wore mirrored glasses that seemed to eat up half of his face, but the sight of his features was enough to make my heart clench. I held up my hands. If I had to show emotion, it had better be amusement. Jokes settled my mind. "Gorgeous place you got here," I said. My voice echoed back to me, sounding the tiniest bit uneven. "A tile floor? For a main hall? Dee, are you crazy?"

He smiled. Oh, God, how I loved that smile. It made him so unbelievably handsome, with his white, straight, perfect teeth and full lips. He came down the stairs, taking his time, his hand resting lightly on the carved bannister. The stairs curved around the edge of the room in a graceful spiral. He did not run, though I wished he had. I wanted this greeting over with, so we could get down to business. But as impatient as he was, I couldn't keep my eyes off his face and his clothes. Talk about style. He was dressed in classy attire: a spotless suit and a slim black silk tie. His shoes were expensive black leather. I probably didn't make enough money to afford one of his socks.

"Leanne."

That single word, full of a tenderness and warmth I had not expected. Dean held out his arms to me, and I practically threw myself at him. All my self-control seemed to have deserted me. I crashed into him with all the coordination of a drunken sorority girl.

The hug was not a shoulder-slapping, friendly squeeze. It was an embrace, like I was one of his polished little girlfriends instead of a reject from a small town in the middle of nowhere. Nestled into his broad chest, I felt utter peace and serenity for the first time since I joined the military. "Classy digs here, my brother," I said into his crisp white shirt. He smelled of expensive cologne.

Dean released me and took my hands in his. I felt a dull flush rise on my cheeks. Goosebumps rippled along my skin. "It's been a long time, my dear," he said. He took my hand up to his mouth and kissed it lightly, between the knuckles, no more than a brush of his lips. I shivered. Where the hell had he learned manners? As if he hadn't radiated elegance already!

"Stop it," I ordered, but my mouth twitched. I tried reassuring my confidence with another joke. "Do I have to cut my hand off, now?" I asked him.

He tilted his head. "What do you mean?" he said, sounding puzzled.

"Well, I could sell it on the market." I gripped my own wrist in a dramatic death-grip. "I could sell it for a thousand bucks!" I declared. "An authentic hand kissed by the great all-star celebrity Dean Domino! I'd make a fortune!"

Dean offered me a small, polite smile, but I could tell he wasn't amused. My face turned crimson. "Sorry, Dee, that was a terrible joke," I muttered.

"It was," he assured me, taking my hands again, "but I am flattered nonetheless. To think you would even joke about maiming yourself because of me . . . ."

I chuckled despite my embarrassment. Dean smiled graciously and showed me into a small, private office, where he personally served me a glass of brandy. I sank into a leather chair and crossed my legs. I felt so small and shabby compared to him and to his house. "So, Mister Domino," I said, batting my eyelashes, "how's life in the big city?"

"Marvelous," he told me. He handed me the drink and sat in the chair beside mine. "The social elites are simply a pleasure. So many lovely young ladies."

I pushed his shoulder. "You are a whore," I told him, with my typical tact and wit. His resulting smile was predatory and a little sour. "I knew you'd acclimate to stardom life quickly. Fame always suited you, my friend. And Mister Domino? Really? How creative of you."

"My name is homage to my two largest musical influences," he told me loftily, sipping his brandy. Who drinks brandy? I had to chuckle at the absurdity. "Besides. I like it."

"You would," I said, smiling into my glass.

There was a silence. Finally, Dean spoke up. "I missed you, Leanne," he told me. The friendliness and serenity in his voice made me squirm. I toyed with my glass, not wanting to look at him. He wasn't joking or mocking me. This was true emotion from Dean, and it was scary. The only things Dean was serious about were the things that affected him the most. I didn't want to deal with that. I didn't want him to be serious with me. I was afraid.

"I missed you too, Dee," I told my glass.

His hand moved into my field of vision, gently taking me by the chin and forcing me to look at him. I looked up into the pair of bluest eyes I had ever seen. He had taken off his glasses just to make eye contact with me. I supposed I should feel flattered. "I did miss you," he told me quietly. His hand slipped up to my cheek, then withdrew. He sipped his brandy. "So what has Agent Army Girl been up to?"

I shrugged. "Shooting Reds, kicking ass, and dining with beautiful women. What else?"

"Do you commonly talk about yourself?" inquired Dean. One finger stroked the rim of his glass slowly, around and around. His eyes travelled across my face, examining my every feature, but if he looked at my chest, he was subtle about it. "I should love such an opportunity."

I snorted. "You flirt," I said. The corner of his lip lifted, revealing his teeth. "You can't dine with me, Dee, I'm just a grunt. I'm not good for your popularity."

"You hurt me with your words."

"Good. Somebody needs to knock you down a peg."

Dean chuckled and leaned back. "You are keeping me from an important appointment, my dear," he informed me. "Mister St. John is slated to arrive promptly at five PM for dinner. I am the star of his most recent movie. It will be released late next year."

"It's three-fifteen."

"But his beautiful wife arrives before he does," said Dean innocently. "I must keep her company until her husband turns up."

"You are a whore," I said in awe.

"Do not speak your idle vulgarities in front of me, you savage. It is unbecoming."

"What's becoming about a Sioné girl?" I asked, rubbing the back of my neck. I drained my glass. Without a word, Dean took it and refilled it. He also brought a cigar and a pack of cigarettes with him. I eyed him in appreciation. Good service.

"No one from that town is becoming, unless their name is Leanne." He offered me a cigarette, which I took, and lit it for me. Only then did he light his own cigar.

I flapped my hand at him. "Oh, you." I took a deep drag of my cigarette with a sigh of satisfaction. "Thanks."

"No, you," said Dean. "You are here for a reason, and I will not have you hide it from me any longer. What are you doing here?"

His voice had risen, and I winced at the feeling in it. Up until now he had kept a comfortable distance between himself and emotional involvement, but I sensed that restraint slipping. My muscles tensed as I automatically prepared for combat. But that was not Dean's style. He would lash me with his words, drag out all the old skeletons, but he would never hit me. The tabloids would have a field day if he did. No, better to remind me of all the horrible things I'd done to him and make me ashamed, too ashamed to go to the press and discuss his history.

"Calm down, Dee," I said, wary, "Can't a girl just say hi to an old friend?"

"You've had years to do that, Leanne." Suddenly I realized that he was furious with me. If I could hear even annoyance in his voice, under his iron self-control, then he was most likely concealing a wellspring of rage and hatred. For a moment I wondered if he actually would hit me.

"Well your doorman is like a Rottweiler," I said. "Big, dumb, and aggressive."

"My doorman did not turn you away." The words hit me like a physical blow. "You have not been within a mile of my door in all the years I have lived here."

"All right, Dee," I mumbled. Abashed, I avoided his gaze. "I'm here because I need to see the Major, and I went to Sioné to locate him. I talked to Sal. Sal suggested I come see you."

Dean looked down his nose at me. "What makes you think I would know where some two-bit drug pusher from that repugnant little slum might be?" he asked scornfully. He clamped his teeth down on the cigar. Smoke coiled up in long, lazy loops toward the ceiling. "I have not spoken to that man since . . . since he and I had an argument. I couldn't have been more than fifteen."

As far as I could remember, the Major and Dean had always gotten along well. "What did you two argue about?" I asked.

"That was a lifetime ago," Dean informed me. "I don't remember."

"Damn. Well . . . I tried."

Dean studied me quietly. He puffed on his cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke, thankfully not in my face. "You must have more evidence than that, Leanne."

"I was not entirely honest with Sal," I admitted. I put my drink on the coffee table and tapped my ashes into a delicate crystal ashtray. "I did have intelligence that the Major had been in Sioné, but I also had reason to believe he'd left about six months or so ago. He was working for some government research program. Scientists from pretty much everywhere; I even hear a rumor that one's from China. But that's probably not true. Military intelligence is an oxymoron, you know."

Dean's chuckle sounded a little forced. His sense of humor and mine differed immensely, unless the jokes were dirty. "Indeed. So, where do I come in?"

I had to take a second to get my thoughts together. I took a deep breath, looked him directly in the eye, and said, "I first had to verify that the Major hadn't actually stayed in Sioné. I figured Sal would know. Pretty sure the guy still smokes some grass. I kept my ears open, and while I was there, I didn't hear anything. He suggested I ask you. I would have done so anyway."

"Why me?"

"Because I happen to know you got a certain golden ticket."

A slow smile spread across Dean's face; he lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. Who, me? he seemed to say. "It was not a golden ticket, my dear, though the invitation was quite . . . lovely."

I continued. "The last we heard, the Major had been snapped up by the Big Mountain Research and Development Center. They have a branch working with our military and government. He's busy at work, though they won't tell us what he's working on. If he's even there anymore. The head scientists trade workers like kids trade baseball cards. There's something like two thousand lab monkeys working per division there. He could be long gone and I wouldn't know until I got there."

"What does that have to do with my invitation?"

"It's believed that Frederick Sinclair and one of the scientists at the Big MT did a little . . . arrangement."

"Investigate him, then," said Dean. He extinguished his cigar and tossed it carelessly into the ashtray. The smoldering cigar glared sullenly at me. I ignored it, and its owner's bad temper. "Arrest him. It would do my heart good to see the man in jail."

"I'm not interested in your heart, Dee."

"You never were," Dean shot back.

"Go to hell," I snapped.

"Get to the point, woman!" Dean commanded. He stood up and fixed me with a withering glare. "I grow weary of our talk. My company should be arriving soon."

"I need you to get me into the Sierra Madre, so I can do some investigating. And, if necessary, I can arrest Frederick Sinclair for unauthorized use of experimental technology. If he does have something from the Big MT, the government doesn't know about it, and they'll be pissed. Big MT may be independent, but everything serves the United States Government. I hear your ticket allows you a guest."

"So you want to be my plus-one, is that it?" Dean asked bitterly. "Eight years, darling, since I left, and not a single phone call or letter. Walking back into my life, bold as brass, asking me to do my country a favor . . . turning my life upside-down and threatening my reputation for some interactive pleasure holograms or . . . or . . . automatic toilet cleaners?"

"There's a lot more than toilet cleaners in the Big MT," I retorted. "I'm talking serious technology. Stuff the military needs. Do you see what's going on out there?" I waved my hand in the direction of the windows, streaming beautiful California sunshine. "In Anchorage? In Canada? Here, in your own country? We're so scared of the Reds that we're building underground Vaults to protect ourselves from nuclear annihilation! Do you see what's happening? We need every advantage we can get, Dee."

"Stop calling me that!" he exploded. His mouth drew down in a terrible snarl that made him look ugly and inhuman. I recoiled from the venom in his voice, nearly upsetting my brandy in my haste, and drew my legs up onto the leather seat, pushing myself as far back in the chair as I could be. Dean was tall; he loomed over me like some ghastly grim reaper, an old ghost brought back to life from inside the necropolis that was my memory. "I am not your precious little _Dee_ any longer. I am Dean Domino, singer and entertainer, and some little enlisted bitch is not going to tear me apart again! I won't have it! I won't have you ruining my life again!"

"Dean," I said pleadingly. Every instinct begged me to fight back, to punch him in the mouth, to subdue him as I always could; but he was a full-grown man, and I was . . . still a child. That was the truth. I still acted like a kid in sneakers and school sets. I felt tears prick my eyes. I wiped them away. I could understand his anger, after all. I had treated him appallingly during our last meeting. Dean could hold grudges with a lifelong tenacity, and considering how I'd showed up in his life with no prior warning or apology, I deserved every harsh word that came from his mouth. "I never wanted to hurt you. I never . . . I never wanted that. I just didn't want things to change."

"They didn't," said Dean cruelly. He crossed his arms tightly over his body. His face was deathly white, his eyes dark blue and ferocious. I shivered, fearing he would freeze me to death with his icy wrath while I begged his forgiveness. All Dean had done was brood over me. I had truly hurt him, and that hurt me in turn. "The only thing that changed was my belief in your maturity and your bravery."

"Are you talking about that night in the laundry?"

"I didn't hurt you," Dean snapped. His hands clenched tightly into trembling fists. "You hurt me, and I . . ." Suddenly all the harsh lines in his face smoothed out. His posture relaxed, his arms fell to his sides. Mystified, I searched his face. He blinked and shook his head slowly. "Going over old, hurtful things will not move us forward. I should . . . I should let go."

I timidly offered my hand. "Can we begin again?" I asked him.

He took my hand and planted a kiss on the knuckles, a little more clumsy than before. "Of course, Leanne," he said softly.

"Dean, I just want to say . . ." I paused, swallowed hard, and plunged on, "that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I was such a stupid little kid. I think . . . I think I've grown up now. At least, I hope so. I realized that I treated you so poorly when we were young. Sal was right; I abused you and I abused our friendship, but you kept coming back."

"I came back because I wanted you." His voice was low and melancholy. "I . . . I was very fond of you, Leanne. You saw me as a brother . . . and all I wanted was to be yours. I desired that more than fame, than fortune. You were . . . everything."

I felt a tear go rolling down my cheek, but I was powerless to stop it. Dean brushed it away with his thumb. He said nothing. I was grateful for both small kindnesses. "I was scared, Dee," I mumbled, and then quickly added, "Dean. Sorry. Dean."

He waved this away. "It is a silly nickname, and I do not mind it. It was wrong of me to lose my cool over such trivial things."

"Right. Well . . . I didn't want my feelings to ruin anything. Sal told me, time and time again, that you felt the same way. But I knew you had aspirations, and I had none. I didn't think I'd be good enough for you, and I still don't." Something changed in his expression; a great emotion overwhelmed him in a wave, unsettling him for a moment, and then vanished behind his mask. "I hate that I hurt you, Dean, but I'm glad I denied you. I would have dragged you down."

"I suppose that's a decent apology," Dean commented. He leaned forward, his expression serious, and peered at me over his tightly-interlaced hands. "So . . . in the interest of beginning again and rekindling an old friendship . . . would you like another drink?"

His question surprised a giggle out of me. "I would indeed, my good sir."

So we had another drink and a smoke. We reminisced about the good times. Looking back, I recall only a few details. I remember Dean holding my hand and pouring me some wine. We joked and spoke seriously in turn, catching up on everything and anything in our lives. The ashtray slowly filled up with cigarettes; the room grew thick and blue with smoke. At one point, while I attempted to tell a funny story, Dean excused himself and spoke quietly into the phone on the desk.

The wine was sweet and cherry red. I consumed it in moderation, well aware of the three small glasses of brandy I'd already drank. My toleration of liquor was fairly impressive for a woman, and my height and weight had their advantages. I didn't want to be too vulnerable.

Hours flew by. The sunlight faded from the room, and the lamps went on. I didn't care. I wasn't drunk, but I could definitely feel a buzz. Everything faded to a warm, mellow corona of light. To my eyes, Dean's familiar and well-loved features seemed to glow, transforming his handsome face into something ethereal.

Dean told me of the stars he'd met, the stages he'd sung on, the new movie he starred in. I'd already seen previews for it—some dramatic love story musical about a brave American soldier and his beautiful nurse love interest—but I laughed at his stories of days spent filming in Hawaii, drinking cocktails with the finest movie producers and actors and having a prank war with the filming crew. I couldn't imagine Dean pranking anyone. Seems he did know how to have fun.

The only story I didn't like was the one he told me about Vera Keyes, the actress and singer who played the nurse. He spoke of her with enthusiasm. They had been very close during the movie's production. They had been very close during the movie's production. I had read of their "torrid affair" in the gossip magazines, but at the time, both parties had denied any type of relations. I didn't like thinking of Dee with Vera. It made me a little jealous.

At twelve-thirty, I blearily realized that I was a little drunk. My glass was empty yet again. I glanced at the clock, wondering when it had gotten so late. Dean noticed my movement. "It is rather late," he said. There was just the barest hint of a slur to his words. Strangely enough, his faux accent had deepened. "Perhaps you would like to stay the night?"

"If you don't mind."

He swept his arm around in an elegant bow. A lock of dark hair escaped its gel confinement and brushed along his high forehead. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to play with it or tear it out of his scalp. "It is no trouble at all, my dear."

I attempted to stand. The world wobbled a little; I stumbled forward and overbalanced. Dean, of course, was there to rescue me, catching me in his arms right before I fell. He pulled me close and peeked anxiously into my eyes. "Are you all right, Leanne?" he asked.

Thrilled by the concern in his voice, I giggled. "Why yes." I rested my head on his chest. He smelled wonderful, the perfect combination of smoke and cologne. His heartbeat quickened for a moment, and then settled into a calm percussion. "Just a little dizzy."

His arms tightened around me. I hugged him back. The velvety press of his shirt against my face was comforting. I lifted my head to look him in the eye. We regarded one another for a moment, as if trying to memorize every aspect of the other's appearance. Then Dean bent down and kissed me, softly, and I let him. This time I didn't punch him in the mouth. In fact, I kissed him back. When we broke apart, he touched his lips. "Was that so hard?" he asked.

"Not at all." I chuckled. "I guess I'm not such a coward anymore, huh?"

"You were never a coward," Dean said. He caught me by the chin. Startled, I lowered my eyes. "You've always been brave. I've always admired that bravery."

"Then I guess tonight is a night of bravery." I laced my hands behind his neck and, with a deep breath, forced myself to look earnestly into his face. The lamplight cast his features into partial shadow, making him look both handsome and mysterious. All the love and goodwill and friendship I felt for him, I tried to convey in a single tender gaze. "Be my friend, Dean."

His hand brushed over my hair, delicate and graceful. The man was good with his hands. He reached out to my face, but thought better of it and rubbed my forearms instead. The massage felt incredible. "I am your friend, Leanne. If you'll be mine."

"Of course, Dean."

He kissed me again and buried his face in my neck. His breath on my throat sent shivers down my spine. "Perhaps you should get some rest. You're bound to be tired."

By that point, sleep was the least of my priorities. "I don't want to," I said. The words came out in a whine. Then, as an afterthought, I added, "I want to stay with you. Please?"

He smiled into my skin. "Whatever you say."

I learned a lot that night about friendship. Some friendships are built to last, no matter how much time passes. I realized that you never stop loving and missing a person. The years just deepened the way I felt about Dean; I hid it far beneath the surface of course, busying myself with other goals and concerns, but I could never truly erase that love. That need. I couldn't hide it the rest of my life. Dean may have been a selfish bastard at times, obsessive and moody, possessive and jealous, but he cared for me in a way that no one else had. We revived an old friendship, and later on, when the night grew cold and unfriendly, I think we both learned a little about love and desire. I realized that there's nothing wrong with finding comfort in desire. I found comfort in Dean. As I closed my eyes for the last time before sleep claimed me, it occurred to me that there might be redemption for me in him, too.

* * *

**So... what do you think? Leave a comment in the little box. Thanks.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I awoke the next morning to a room full of sunshine and warmth. At first I was confused about where I was. The room seemed too clean and bright for a cheap hotel room. I sat up carefully, wincing at my headache. The blanket fell away from my body, and I realized that I wasn't wearing anything. The night came flooding back. I remembered everything. A blush spread across my face. I wrapped the blanket as tightly around myself as I could and cuddled into the mattress.

The door opened. It was Dean, clad in a red bathrobe with black trim. Those had always been his favorite colors. Two ornately-drawn cursive Ds flashed at me from the cloth. Classic Dean. He wanted everyone to know who he was and where he came from. He'd even go so far as to monogram a bathrobe.

When he saw that I was awake, his gaze softened. "Good morning, Leanne."

I tried to smile. "Good morning, Dean," I said. "What time is it?"

"Ten thirty." He perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing out his robe as he did so. "You were tired. I let you sleep."

My blush deepened. I didn't like the way Dean was leering at me, as if I were some kind of prize. I was not a trophy, and I refused to let him think so. "Uh . . . how long have you been awake?"

"Only about an hour. I made breakfast."

"You can cook?" I asked, shocked.

His only response was a snicker. "I do know how to do some practical things, Leanne. I haven't had a butler forever, you know."

I sat up, careful to keep the blanket wrapped around me. Dean's eyes slowly ran up and down the concealed curves of my body. My shirt was lying discarded on the chair across the room, my jeans near Dean's feet. I leaned around him and snagged the pants by a belt loop, pulling them under the covers with me. I wriggled into them with Dean looking on, a faint expression of amusement on his face. It took a few moments, but I eventually got the jeans buttoned and zipped up. "Hand me my shirt, Dee?" I asked.

Much to my displeasure, he smirked and stayed where he was. "Surely you can get it yourself?" he purred.

Oh God, that voice. It was enough to send a tingle of electricity crackling up and down my spine. I crossed my arms over my bare chest. I didn't want him to see the goose bumps that had broken out along my skin. "Please," I said.

Dean was unwilling to comply. He crossed his legs. As he did so, his bathrobe opened, revealing part of his pale torso. I felt my cheeks heat up again, but I kept my cool.

"Surely," he drawled, "you're not shy after last night? Come, now, Leanne—"

"Dean. Stop."

The smirk vanished immediately. He ducked his head and coughed. "My apologies." He retrieved my shirt, turned away, and waited patiently until I was decent before facing me. "Do you have other clothes? You can shower." He gestured toward the bathroom door.

As a matter of fact, I did have my clothes. I hadn't checked into a hotel before coming to Dee's. At the time I'd figured I could do it afterwards, unaware I'd be spending the night with Dean. "Uh, yeah. In the trunk of my car, there's a suitcase."

"I'll send the doorman to get it. He moved your car to the garage last night."

"Thanks, Dee." Dressed, I clambered out of the bed and hugged him. He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and put his lips to my hair. His breath on my forehead was soothing. I kissed his cheek, my nose full of his scent. His hand brushed my cheek as we broke apart.

"I'll bring your suitcase upstairs," he told me. "It will be right outside the door when you come out. Shower quickly; we have business to discuss."

"Five minutes," I promised him.

His eyebrow rose. "You're a woman, is that possible?"

"I'm Agent Army Girl, remember? Anything's possible for me." I headed for the bathroom and left Dee standing in his bedroom with a bemused smile on his face. I could hear him humming as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Dean's bathroom was all white and blue tile, glass brick partitions, and chrome. Stripping, I showered quickly, using some sweet, fruity shampoo that probably cost a hundred dollars a bottle on my unruly hair. True to my word, I was out in five minutes, and once I had wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel (also monogrammed with the double D), I crept out into the bedroom and retrieved some clothes from my suitcase. I dressed in the new clothes and, deciding I was presentable, made my way downstairs for breakfast.

Smells invaded my nose as soon as I reached the head of the stairs. I inhaled deeply: coffee, bacon, bread. Normally I didn't eat much, but today I was especially hungry. _Got a good workout_, I thought to myself, and then winced. Better not think too hard about that.

The sound of Dean singing drifted up to me. He sounded . . . good. Better than good. Like Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, singing together in a kind of beautiful harmony. I'd heard his cover of _Something's Gotta Give_, and I had to admit, he mimicked Crosby's voice quite well. But on his own . . . he was amazing. Why cover the greats when he could be a great?

I entered the spacious kitchen and beheld the object of my musings standing before the stove, frying eggs. He didn't turn around, but I saw the corner of his lips twitch upward in a smile. I sat at the counter, where two cups of coffee stood steaming. I grabbed one. "Breakfast, dear Leanne," said Dean, sliding a plate heaped with eggs and bacon across the bar at me. The smell was heavenly.

"Stop the presses," I joked, a forkful of eggs in my mouth, "Dean Domino can do something practical!"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," ordered Dean. He cut up a piece of bacon and chewed slowly, chasing his bite with a sip of coffee. I swear he never stopped smirking the entire time. "It is unbecoming."

"Oh fine, Mister Prim and Prissy," I grumbled, tearing into some toast.

"Savage," he retorted.

"Asshole."

"What did I tell you about swearing in my presence?" he asked with admirable patience.

"I believe you begged me to tell you when you acted like a fussy old woman so I could put you in your place." I grinned at his dumbfounded expression.

"You are impertinent," he told me, rolling his eyes and huffing.

He even looked like a fussy old woman when he was pouting. He stuck out one lip in an obviously unconscious gesture and narrowed his eyes at me. The expression was so comical, yet so Dee, I had to smile and ignore the comment. Shrugging, I said, "Someone has to keep you humble, Dean."

"Leanne, someone has to keep you acting your age instead of a boy of six. Might I suggest a nurse? Or a parole officer?"

"Hey!"

Dean's chuckle was rich and dark. I shivered. Thoughts leapt into my mind that I forcibly suppressed. Seduction was Dean's middle name, but I couldn't give into it. "You annoy me, I annoy you," he said. Smug satisfaction was written in every line of his handsome face. His jaw twitched as he stifled a smirk.

"You sanctimonious bastard."

"You irritating, immature, whiny, wretched little _girl_."

I gaped at him. Though his tone was stern, his eyes danced. He sipped his coffee and tried even harder not to snicker.

"Screw you, Dean."

Dean winked at me over the rim of his cup. "When?"

I groaned. "Just hush."

"As you wish," he agreed.

We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. A clock on the wall ticked quietly to itself. Birds tweeted outside the windows, welcoming the world to a brand new day under the California sun. I love birds. They're so free, taking off from wherever they want, whenever they want, without needing to worry about hazardous fuel or boring maintenance checks.

"Leanne."

My name, spoken in a voice like velvet, brought my attention back to Dean. He was completely grave now, his gaze intent, his body set. "We need to talk, Leanne."

"About?"

"About the Madre."

I swallowed hard. I didn't want to look at Dean. I was as afraid of rejection as a girl asking the cute guy in her math class to prom. "Oh, right."

Dean put his hand over mine. "Relax, Leanne," he said, "I'm going to take you with me. But only on certain conditions."

A weight rolled off my heart; suddenly, I could breathe again. I beamed. "Thank you, Dean," I said happily. "I'll do just about anything."

"Is that _so_?" Dean inquired, winking.

"Shut up," I groaned.

"Very well." A smile touched his lips. He drank coffee and cleared his throat. "First of all, you should take note that Frederick—Mister Sinclair to you—has invited me to stay at the Madre for one month before the private ceremony, which takes place precisely two weeks before the Gala Event. The Gala Event will be on the twenty-third of October. At that point, the Madre will be open to the public, but before then, it shall serve as a vacation spot for a few of Frederick's select friends."

"Why do you get to move in a month before that?"

Dean's smile widened, but it was not a kindly expression. It was more like an animal baring its teeth. "Because I introduced the lovely Vera to my _dear_ friend Sinclair; if not for me, they would not be so happy together."

I could think of no scathing, sarcastic, or humorous reply to that claim, so I simply said, "Dean, you're ridiculous."

"I know. Now. My private invitation, which came attached to my 'golden ticket,' invites me to arrive on the first of September. I will be staying in the Madre's residential district. You will have your own room. But do not think I will be lazing about all day, oh no. I am part of the entertainment that the guests will enjoy on both the night of the private ceremony and the Gala Event. Vera and I will be busy at work, and she has planned a few little . . . private parties . . . for the three—four, now, with you—inhabitants of the Madre. There will be other guests as time goes on."

"This is all fascinating, Dean," I said, trying to be patient, "but what are your terms?"

Dean held up one long finger. "Silence," he commanded. I rolled my eyes and obeyed. Dean was so pushy. "I'm getting to it. These things are important, Leanne. I expect you to listen." He glared at me to make sure I was paying close attention. I cupped my ears with my hands. Dean scowled. "Stop that. Listen and be quiet, and enough sass out of you for one morning."

"Oh really?" I asked with a wink.

"Yes, Leanne." He threw up his hands, exasperated but smiling. "How old are you?"

"Twelve," I said innocently. I knew he couldn't resist my meager charms.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I despair of you," he said haughtily. "Number one. In the presence of others, you are my closest and dearest friend—"

"Only around others?"

"Leanne!" Dean snapped. Startled, I fell silent. "You know that you are always my closest and dearest friend, the woman I l—" he froze, cleared his throat, and said more quietly, "you are someone important to me, all right? But to everyone else, you are not an investigator. No Agent Army Girl activities in front of others. _Especially_ Sinclair. He does not need to know your true reason for coming to the Madre.

"Second, I expect your business to be complete by the time of the Gala Event. I will not stick around all winter waiting for you to finish. I have tours starting in November. Besides. When the Madre is stuffed full of unwashed, whiny, uncultured, vulgar tourists, it will be impossible to conduct any type of investigation. Security will be fully hired by then, and all the cameras will have been hooked up. Try sneaking into the kitchens or the china closet with a guard blasting you to bits."

I winced. "Thanks for the image. Any more requests?"

"Oh I'm just getting started. I also expect you to _dress_ as a lady does. If you are to act like one, you must dress like one. None of the other women will wear boots and vests and mirrored lenses. Consider it like this; if you cannot see Vera Keyes wearing it, don't wear it yourself."

"And why should I consider Vera Keyes my fashion standard?" I demanded, smacking my hand down on the table. "That polished little starlet never spent six months hunkered down in a bunker buried in the Anchorage snow!"

"Most women haven't," said Dean calmly. "You are a, ah, _unique_ individual. An accidental draftee because a mistake with a RobCo terminal changed your life. You are not the same kind of woman as Vera. But Sinclair expects you to be. Vera would not have had enough bravery in her delicate little soul to accept her position and enter boot camp. She would have been an unfit female test case."

Flattered, I scratched my chin and drew aimless patterns on the countertop with my finger. "I was proud to serve my country," I said quietly. "When that machine drew my name . . . it was frightening. I hadn't even applied for the Women's Air Corps, let alone the Women's Army Battalion. But I was glad it happened. Meant to be, you know?"

Dean nodded. He rubbed my hand, and I leaned against his chest, my shoulder braced against his collarbone. "Shall we move to the living room?" he asked.

"Please. These stools are not as comfortable as they look."

We abandoned our plates and sat down on a plush couch in the living room. Dean insisted upon sitting beside me so he could put his arm around my shoulders. I was uneasy about this. What would happen if I got mad at him again? It would be a shame to bruise his lovely skin. Despite my misgivings, I relaxed into the soft upholstery and into Dean's warm and solidly reassuring frame. Weariness descended upon me as Dean resumed his speech.

"Anyway, I _do_ expect you to wear dresses. I know you probably have none, but that's what a paycheck and the military are for, correct?"

I snorted. The idea of walking up to General Gray's desk and blithely asking for a thousand dollars in dress money seemed preposterous. I would have considered it if I didn't think he'd either laugh me out of the office or start yelling at me (or worse, get Charon to teach me a lesson). "If you think the government will buy me dresses, Dean, you're crazy."

"You can always try."

"True. But be prepared for rejection on that request."

"I'll cover some of the costs . . . for a fee of my own."

Surprised, I turned to look at Dee. He smirked back at me. He stroked my forearm with one finger, leaving a trail of tingling, cold skin wherever he touched. "Stop that, you pig," I said, annoyed.

"As you wish." His hand halted; he adjusted his hold on my elbow and went on. "I will not have you embarrassing me in front of Frederick and Vera. No rude questions, no suspicions, no pulling your badge on employees or interrogating the gardener."

I smiled. "No problem, Dean."

I hadn't planned on asking a gardener. What did they know? I was going to ask a cook, a waiter, or a construction worker for some dirt on Sinclair and his girlfriend. Electricians, plumbers, and handymen had their ears to the wall, sometimes literally_ inside_ the walls. Line cooks, the easily ignored class of the kitchen world, made it their jobs to cater to the personal tastes of their employers. Waiters knew _everything_. They went everywhere, standing invisible at tables where secrets were discussed. Snobby rich folk never thought twice about talking in front of waiters. They thought they were safe as long as the next table over didn't hear them.

Dean tapped me lightly on my head. "I said pay attention," he said. Then, before I could react, he swooped down and kissed me on the cheek. I made a face and scrubbed the skin with my sleeve. Where the hell had _that_ come from?

As if he had read my mind, Dean said dryly, "The look of blank confusion on your face when you're busy thinking is quite endearing, Leanne. It's as if all your brainpower is spent forming cohesive thoughts."

I growled at him and punched his shoulder, softening the blow at the very last second. He raised one eyebrow and said nothing, but suddenly I had the feeling I'd just proved his point. "Just finish," I grumbled.

"Fourth—or is it fifth?—I _demand_ that you go nowhere in the Sierra Madre that you are not allowed to go. If something is still under construction, stay away from it, unless Frederick takes us with him. And it must be_ us_, because my sixth request is that you go nowhere without me as your chaperone. Snooping around and skulking in hallways is inappropriate."

"God, Dean, you're such a control freak."

"These are my terms," replied Dean coolly. "Accept them or fly back to Washington DC."

My rebellious side screamed at me to refuse, but I knew I couldn't. I had to play nicely with Dean if I wanted to look for that technology in the Sierra Madre. If I had an extra month to investigate, I might even find the Major. Dean was _my_ golden ticket. What could I do but agree? He had me over a barrel. My success hinged on his whim and my cooperation.

Swallowing hard, I offered my hand and said, "I can agree to your terms, Dean. Are there any more?"

Dean accepted my handshake, sealing our contract and my fate. "I believe that's about it. As long as you dress properly, act properly, and refrain from embarrassing me in front of Sinclair, I can see no reason why I wouldn't take you with me. However," he raised his hand for emphasis, "if you _do_ embarrass me, I'll send you home."

It hurt my pride to murmur, "Fine."

"All right then." Dean swiftly released me and stood up. I remained on the couch, stunned at the sudden loss of cozy body heat beside me. My eyes snapped open. Lonely and wide awake, I stood and stretched.

"Go get your things," Dean told me, "I rescheduled my dinner for an early lunch. You cost me hours of free time, my dear. Mister St. John must be appeased today."

"Oh, no," I said. My voice sounded faint to my own ears. My hands crept up to my hair and tugged of their own accord, sending bolts of bright pain into my head. "I'm so sorry. I forgot. You were supposed to have dinner . . . ."

Dean seized my hands. "I caught up with someone important instead," he said firmly. "It was no trouble. I wasn't in the proper _mood_ to deal with Lucas and his nagging wife. She does not necessarily fit my, ah, _specific_ tastes in women." He released my hands and added, "She is a lovely woman, but not _nearly_ as lovely as you."

"Thanks, Dee."

We stood for a moment, staring at each other, until Dean finally sniffed and brushed off his shirt. "You should pack up," he said quietly.

I did as I was told, running up to Dean's room and throwing my dirty clothes in a laundry bag. After double-checking my belongings, I hurried down to the front door with my suitcase in hand.

Dean was standing at the front door, waiting for me. He folded me into a brief hug. "Do not be late for dinner," he ordered. "And you don't need to bring this." He slipped the suitcase out of my hand. "I'll bring it back up to your room."

"Thanks, Dean."

He walked me to the front door and opened it for me. My rental car stood, idling, in front of the house. Dean took me by the shoulder and said, "Now, listen. My lunch will run a little _long_, most likely. Lucas St. John is a notorious chatterer, and he packs away quite a bit of booze. After lunch I have a meeting with my agent. Come back at nine tonight. We have plans to make."

"All right."

Dean smirked and kissed my cheek. "Get lost."

I paused halfway down the stairs and turned back to Dean. He cocked his head. I threw up my hands. "What the hell am I supposed to do in Hollywood for ten hours?" I asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Leanne? This town was _built_ to cater to _tourists_ like you. Go shopping. Do some sightseeing. I am not a tour guide. You'll think of something. You're creative."

Groaning, I made my way to my car and drove down the tree-lined path to the gate. As I rejoined the world at large and became just one more driver on the wide road into the heart of Hollywood, I realized that I would need to call the general. He might have orders for me, and I needed to ask about my money. There was nothing in my current budget that would cover expensive outfits.

I stopped at a convenience store to use the payphone. As I plugged in the money and lifted the receiver, I prayed I wouldn't have to talk to Charon.

Mercifully, the general's real secretary answered the phone. "Office of General Jameson Gray. How can I help you?"

"Stacy, it's Leanne Rhynes."

Stacy's voice immediately changed tone and mood. "Oh! Lee! How good to hear your voice!"

"Good to hear you too, Stacy."

"We've missed your smiling face around the office," said Stacy. "But you didn't call to catch up, did you? You want to talk to the General."

"Of course. Thanks, doll."

Stacy's bubbly laugh leaked out of the phone. "_'Doll?'_ Did you pick that up from Mister Domino?"

I silently cursed at myself for yet again using those stupid endearments. Guess I couldn't entirely destroy the Sioné part of me. "No, Stacy, I picked it up from home. That's the way we talk down there. Everything there is 'doll,' 'darlin,' and 'howyadoin.'"

"Did Mister Domino talk that way too?"

I chuckled briefly. "Yes, Stacy, he talked that way. He didn't always sound like an impeccable British peacock. Stardom's gone to his brain. He used to talk as plain as I did. Plainer, 'cause there's nothing complex in that head of his." _Except seduction_, I added silently to myself.

Stacy sounded doubtful of my claim. "I can't imagine him talking like a hick," she said. "Are you teasing me?"

"I'm a _hick_ now, am I?" I demanded, mock-affronted. "Since when?"

Stacy giggled. "Oh, _you_," she said. "Hang on; I'll connect you to the general."

I liked Stacy. She was always cheerful. She even made grumpy old Charon crack a grin now and then. I hummed to myself as I waited for Gray to pick up.

There was a click, and then a male voice growled, "Hello?"

General Gray is the most stereotypical Army guy I could think of, an older man with a severe gray buzz-cut, a gravelly voice, and a bad temper. He smoked expensive Cuban cigars. I wasn't too fond of him, but since I'd been assigned to his unit for the investigation, I had to live with him.

"Hello, General," I said, "this is Leanne Rhynes reporting in."

"Where the hell have you been, Rhynes?!" the general yelled. I winced and held the phone a few inches from my ear. General Gray was the type of man whose volume never descended under the level of a bellow.

"I called Charon the day before yesterday, sir," I said, fervently praying Charon hadn't forgotten to relay my status to our superior.

"And what have you been doing since then? Sharing cocktails with your pansy singer friend and collecting makeup tips?"

"Huh?" I said, showcasing my vast intelligence in a single monosyllabic utterance. "Dee's not, um, that way, sir. And I don't think he knows how to put on makeup any better than me."

"I don't care, Rhynes," rumbled Gray. "What do you want?"

"Well, sir, I convinced Dee—Mister Domino, that is, Sir—to escort me to the Sierra Madre Casino. He'll be leaving for the Madre about a month and a half before the casino opens, and he'll be staying there until the Gala Event on the twenty-third of October. That gives me six weeks to investigate Mister Sinclair's technology."

"And what about that scientist?" There was a rattle of papers on the other end. "Philip Koehler?"

It took me a moment to realize he was referring to the Major. "Oh! Mister Koehler." I'd only heard the Major's real name about half a dozen times. It was still peculiar to me. "Well hopefully Mister Koehler will be at the Sierra Madre, sir. And if not, perhaps Mister Sinclair will know where we can find him."

"That's a lot of hoping, Rhynes."

I took a deep breath and primed myself for the upcoming debate. I had only one shot to make my case. "Sir, if I go to the Sierra Madre, I can kill two birds with one stone. There will be no need to send in an undercover operative. Mister Domino is friends with Mister Sinclair. He knows Miss Vera Keyes quite well, too. I can interrogate Mister Domino and use his information to get close to Mister Sinclair. Once I have a confession from him and the name of his associate at the Big MT, we can arrest them both and seize the technology for the military."

Gray was silent. I ran through some scenarios while I waited for his reply, trying to cover myself and prepare for whatever direction the conversation turned. The moment stretched out long, nearly tearing me to pieces with anticipation. I was just congratulating myself on being adequately prepared when he finally spoke.

"All right, Rhynes," he grunted. "Go with your singer. Get in, get out, and be quiet while you do it. The last thing we need is a public relations disaster."

I opened my mouth and closed it again like a fish. I was _not_ prepared for cooperation. "Thank you, sir?" I squeaked.

"Anything else, Rhynes?"

Oh boy. Here we go. "W-well," I stammered, "I do need some uh . . . some d-dresses . . . for the events and such . . . I mean I could always take care of it, sir, but I mean—"

The general's voice, full of strained patience, interrupted me before I could start blabbering. "Rhynes?"

"Uh, yes, sir?"

"Do you need money?"

"Yes, sir."

". . . All right. Let's talk funding."

I couldn't believe my good fortune. The general promised me a check for several thousand dollars, to be delivered to the home of Dean Domino by some courier from the Army base in Santa Monica at six PM that night. How he had the power to authorize such a sum from across the country, I'll never know. I suspected this was a covert deal. Military couriers didn't typically perform such menial tasks. This assignment must be more important than I thought. After vowing to call and alert the general to my whereabouts, I hung up and went on an adventure into the city of fame and action.

I liked Hollywood. It was a lot bigger than Sioné, plenty of room to stretch my legs and explore new territory. The walls and windows of the small shops were decorated with posters for various singers and actors: Danny Parker, Paul Clooney, Joey Baxter, Rosemary Horton, and Dean Domino, of course. I browsed some record stores, and checked out some price tags in a local boutique. The formalwear was more expensive than I'd anticipated. At noon I was struck by a perverse desire to shop, and purchased some souvenirs for Sal, Dee, Charon, and Stacy. Mindful of my orders, I checked in with Stacy at one, and again with Charon at four.

Charon had news for me. That was highly unusual. I'd never heard him say so much at once. He told me I had a meeting with some RobCo representatives on the second of July. No arguments, no rescheduling. When I questioned him, he refused to tell me why. I asked who had set up the appointment, which was thankfully a question he could answer. According to him, the RobCo people had requested it! What the hell did RobCo want with me? Flummoxed, I thanked him for his message and hung up. I found a secluded little park and claimed a bench, where I sat and smoked for a few hours in thoughtful, and unaccustomed, silence. I did not get any closer to an answer.

When seven-thirty rolled around I regretfully left my bench and got into my car. I turned the key, checked the gas levels, and sighed. Government gas-cards weren't enough for a full tank. Prices had abruptly skyrocketed in the last six months from four dollars a gallon to over twenty-five. It was putting one hell of a strain on the economy. Most people were flocking to Chryslus to buy one of their new nuclear cars. Why couldn't RobCo work on something useful, like a solar-powered vehicle that didn't cost a fortune? Everyone was hemorrhaging money just to get to work in the morning. It just seemed to be another thing going wrong in the world. By the time this war was over, even the government would be broke.

Dee's house looked even more beautiful in the evening, illuminated in every window with soft, flickering lights. I switched off the car and sat outside the gate, watching the house and wondering about what plans Dean and I had to make. At last, a small, expensive car crept out of the gate and roared onto the road with a squeal of rubber. I took that as my signal to enter the premises. I drove through the gate and parked out front. The doorman let me in without any fuss and directed me to the small office I'd seen the night before.

Dean was sitting behind the desk with his tie undone and his hair in disarray, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand and drumming on the desk blotter with the other. His glasses lay discarded on the desk, his jacket tossed carelessly over a chair. The cigarette in his mouth was marked by deep indentations from his gritted teeth. He looked so frustrated that, at first, I was apprehensive to approach him. I closed the door and crept halfway into the room. "Dean?" I whispered.

He looked up. "Hello Leanne," he said quietly. He tried to smile. "Did you enjoy your tourist activities?"

"I shopped," I muttered, shamefaced.

Dean's eyebrow rose. "Oh? You, shopping? Do tell."

"I bought souvenirs," I confessed.

"That makes it even worse." Dean mashed his cigarette into an ashtray. "What did you purchase?"

"Does it matter? We need to get down to business."

"It matters to me," said Dean, as though it should be obvious. "Everything you do matters, my dear."

"For my . . . friend . . . Stacy, I bought a flower inside a glass ball. It's a knick-knack. She likes that sort of thing." Dean harrumphed, but I continued. "For Charon, I don't know what he likes so I bought him a knife."

"Who is Charon?" asked Dean. His voice was so free of emotion, I squinted suspiciously at him. Could the great Dean Domino be jealous?

"He's my superior's . . . assistant." I didn't want to use the word "slave." It made me uncomfortable. "He doesn't talk much, so I just bought him a weapon. And I bought Sal an octopus."

I didn't think it was possible for Dean's eyebrows to rise any higher, but they did. "An _octopus_?"

"A glass one. He already has a fish, but I thought it needed a friend."

Dean coughed. "Very well." He stood up, ran his hands through his hair, and poured drinks. "Time to discuss our plans. You should stay here for a few days and buy your clothes. You'll need at least four formal dresses, and plenty of casualwear."

"Dean, there should be a check coming in—"

"What, do you mean this?" Dean dipped into his breast pocket and withdrew a slim sheet of paper. I could just see the official United States seal on its face. He waved it before me like a magician's medallion, and then offered to me.

I reached for it. He withdrew the check at the last second, just beyond the extent of my grasping fingers. I frowned. "Come on, Dean, give." A smirk slowly unfolded on Dean's face. He held the check teasingly just above my head. Humiliated and exasperated, I jumped for it, and he pulled it away from me. "Come _on_, Dee!" I fumed. "We're not kids anymore! Quit it!"

"What's the matter, Leanne?" he purred.

A shiver raced through me, leaving my entire body tingling. "Dean," I said, adopting a calmer and more reasonable tone, "please give me the check." He remained stubbornly uncooperative, but his smirk widened into an arrogant grin. "For God's sake, Dean!" I jumped again. I missed, of course, and stumbled upon landing. Dean caught me easily, steadying me and pressing me into his chest. His eyes were gleaming. I stiffened, painfully aware of his extreme warmth. My heart seemed to skip a beat. "D-Dean . . ." I stuttered.

"Yes?" he asked, kissing my jaw. My mouth twitched.

"Please," I whispered.

"Hmm . . . ." He tucked the check into my jacket pocket and lifted me by my waist. I squeaked. I had no idea Dean could lift my bulk, but he did so effortlessly, swinging me around and setting me against the wall. He placed his hands on either side and leaned into the wall, trapping me between his arms.

"Dean, for the love of God," I said. He loomed over me with that damnable grin plastered across his face. I placed my hand flat on his chest, intending to push him back, but when he kissed me again I grabbed a fistful of his shirt instead, pulling him closer. He complied at once, burying his hands in my hair and trailing his lips down my throat. I couldn't breathe. My brain had short-circuited. What the hell could I do? I was trapped between lust and duty.

"Dean," I said. The word came out in a tiny, trembling sigh. He did not respond. "Dean," I said, a little more forcefully, "stop."

Immediately he released me and stepped back. "But of course." The shine in his eyes was gone; he recovered his businesslike composure. I blinked, dismayed. The heat drained from my body, leaving me hollow and empty. Dean sat down at his desk and pulled out a cigar as if he had not just been busily engaged in seduction.

_How the hell does he look so unfazed?_ I wondered. _How does he turn it off so easily?_ Confused, and a little hurt, I sat down in front of his desk, snatched the glass of brandy, and drained it. The liquor was like a ball of fire blooming in my belly, and it served as a fantastic distraction. "Dee, let's talk dates and times."

"September first. My arrival at the Sierra Madre Casino. August thirtieth, the day you should have your bags packed and ready."

"I have a meeting with RobCo on July second," I told him.

Dean paused. Little trails of smoke issued from his nostrils. "Oh?" he said slowly, "that is unusual."

"Tell me about it. I have to fly back to DC and meet with them. Charon says no arguments."

"Charon speaks and you obey?" inquired Dean.

"I have to. His word comes from my superior, General Gray. I'm flying back to DC in the morning, Charon says."

"Excellent," said Dean dryly. "Perhaps my life can go back to normal for a while."

"Go to hell."

He waved his away. "Life will not be average for a long time, my dear, and it has nothing to do with you."

My curiosity got the best of me. "What were you irritated about?" I asked. "When I walked in, you looked ready to punch someone."

The humor vanished from Dean's face as though someone had flipped a switch in his head. He snorted and toyed with a heavy gold bracelet around his wrist. "I was set up to tour various casinos in Las Vegas starting on the first of November. The biggest venue, the Lucky 38, cancelled. There are rumors that the 38 cannot afford live entertainment. I fear it may be going under."

I cursed under my breath, stunned. This was grim news. It spoke for the state of the world if even the casinos, the richest money pits in the entire country, were running dry. "I'm sorry, Dean," I said.

Dean sighed. "There are many other places to strike up the band. I won't go hungry, at least." He glanced at the clock. "Speaking of hungry, would you like something to eat?"

I smirked and looked at him through half-open eyes. "Not exactly," I said.

"What exactly did you have in mind, then?"

"I'm no good with words. I prefer to show you." I winked. It was a pitiful attempt at flirtation, but it appealed to Dean. He took my hand and led me upstairs, his troubles, for the moment, forgotten.

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**Dear God I have too much time on my hands...**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Oh right I have things and stuff to do. Right. Okay. Chapter 4 away!  
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**Chapter 4**

A loud explosion jolted me awake. I sat up, sending the blankets spilling to the floor, and reached for the gun under my pillow. I could feel my pulse beating in my throat as I scrabbled under the pillow for my sidearm. It was the Chinese, of course; they'd set off another bomb just outside the bunker—

"Leanne! Get up!"

Dear God that was Dean's voice. I blinked. He sounded urgent and harried, not panicking but definitely upset about something. It was the sound of him slamming the door open that had awoken me. Light streamed into the room from the hall, hurting my eyes, but there was only blackness outside the windows.

"Dean?" I said, squinting. "What time is it? It's still dark."

Dean seized the blankets and hurled them carelessly to the floor. I winced at the cold draft and drew up my legs. Thank God I was clothed. "Get up, Leanne!" he exclaimed.

Frightened by the urgency in his voice, I did as I was told. As soon as I stood up Dean grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hall. I tried to keep pace with him, but he was insistent, urging me to move faster than my shuffling, just-woke-up stumble. "Dean, what the hell?" I demanded. "Is it the Reds? Is there a fire?"

"Worse."

"What the hell could be worse? And what time is it?"

"Four. Couldn't sleep. Glad I didn't." He sounded so agitated. "I was watching the news."

"What happened?"

"You'll see." He ushered me into the living room, dark except for the light from the television. I crumpled into the couch, captivated by the pictures on screen.

SUSPECTED COMMUNIST ARRESTED IN SMALL KANSAS TOWN screamed the headline. Onscreen, a man was telling America about the situation in this Midwest town of perhaps fifteen hundred. He was standing on the steps of the tiny town hall with the early morning sun rising above the building's classical peaked bell tower.

I recognized the building in a flash. It was the town hall in Sioné.

Seeing that red brick edifice was like a punch in the gut. All the air rushed from my lungs. Vaguely I was aware of Dean's hand squeezing my shoulder, but I was numb to it. I listened to the newscaster. "The situation here is very tense," he was saying. His voice sounded like it came from the other end of a tunnel. I pinched my earlobe hard. The pain lessened that echoing, disorienting sensation. "The citizen was taken into custody at precisely six AM, escorted by two military employees."

_Military employee_ was such a stupid, noncommittal phrase. It meant they had no idea whether the men were grunts or officers or military cops. This could simply be the arrest of a draft-dodger. It was cruel to frighten the entire country for such a routine arrest.

The news anchor went on, unaffected by the angry thoughts I directed his way. "Now we don't know precisely what happened, but this citizen was escorted from his home by two men. The following footage was recorded by an anonymous bystander."

The man's visage was replaced by an image of a trim little white house with a huge, unmarked black van in front of it. The video shook slightly, as if held by an inexperienced hand. Three men were coming down the front walk; two in dark suits and the third in a t-shirt and wrinkled jeans. He looked as though he'd just been roused from bed. He walked unbound, but the men on either side of him had their hands resting on his forearms, ready to clench down if he tried to escape. The suspect's face was downcast.

"Excuse me Sir." That voice was deep, authoritative. The camera panned around to show a man in a dark suit similar to the others. He had no decorations, no rank marks, and no badge, but everything from his posture to his haircut screamed military. "You can't be  
filming here."

"What's going on?" asked a man off screen, possibly the recorder. "Why are you arresting him?"

"No one is under arrest," said the military drone. He was relatively young, thirty-five or so, probably not a high-ranking officer. He started to say something else, but the camera turned back to the house, where the man was being loaded into the back of the vehicle. "Sir! Please!"

The suspect raised his head at last. He stared directly at the camera for a brief second, and then disappeared into the depths of the van with his guards in tow.

For a moment I sat frozen on the couch, staring at the television but not really seeing it. A low whimper issued from my throat. My mind was a roaring cacophony of confusion, but it was distant, detached from me. I felt as though I were suspended in empty space, sealed off by a pane of thin glass. I didn't dare breathe. _No,_ I whispered to myself, _no, this can't be happening._ It was as if I kept denying what my eyes could plainly see, it would become untrue.

Dean clasped my hand. "Leanne."

That broke the spell. "That was _Sal_," I said. My words came out strangled and uneven. "Dean, that was _Sal_!"

"I know." Dean perched on the arm of the couch. "They identified him a little while ago. When they did, I decided I needed to wake you."

I concentrated on the screen, where the reporter was busy talking about "an inside source" who had confirmed the name of the suspect, one Salvatore Marino, and "strongly suggested" that he was involved with some sort of "Communist-sympathizer activities." I shook my head slowly, trying to clear it. Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.

"Their source has to be Eddy." My voice was at least steady now, though the tears were still close. "He was the guy on the left. Sal's left, that is." Vaguely aware of Dean rubbing my back in small circles, I went on. "Thomas Eddy, he is. He's part of General Gray's investigative unit, been a military operative for years. Guy never shuts up, but General Gray trusts him. The general . . . he should be called a director or something. But he's in charge of other things too, so I guess he needed to keep the title." I knew I was rambling, but Dean didn't seem to mind. He continued massaging my back in an attempt to soothe me. "The military's weird, you know?"

"Does this general typically send out men to apprehend Communist sympathizers?" Dean murmured.

"His group does _everything_. I'd been in Anchorage for months . . . I only came back in January. Change in duty stations, you know?" Now I was crying. I wiped my face impatiently. "It only took me a couple days to learn that everybody under Gray's jurisdiction is occupied with some sort of special project. Maybe that's why they transferred me. Maybe . . . maybe they knew about you and Sal and me."

"I don't think they were after Sal, Leanne," Dean said quietly.

_Why Sal? Why a Cheese Burger Palace manager from a dead-end Kansas town?_ I wondered. I rubbed my face, which was puffy from lack of sleep. _What if they did it to ensure my cooperation? Or maybe they think I'm a Commie, and Sal is my co-conspirator?_

"I'm going back to DC," I said. "Right now. Screw the dresses, I'll come back."

Dean sighed. "I was hoping for breakfast, but very well. Pack quickly."

"Thanks for the hospitality, Dean," I said. I hugged him. As always, he hesitated before hugging me back. _What's up with that?_ I thought. _He'll kiss me, sleep with me, and lay on the charm like I'm some sort of lady, but a friendly hug makes him stiffen up?_

I left Dean in the living room with a promise to return soon and bounded up the stairs. I dressed in the first clothes I found and ignored my hair. After a quick and mercifully amicable farewell to Dean, I drove to the airport, as per Charon's orders. I received my ticket and chose a seat near my gate. People in the terminal threw me odd looks, and one woman in a spotless green dress actually sneered at me as she passed. I was too preoccupied to offer any nasty retorts. My poor brain was working furiously, trying to come up with some answers. Finding none, it soon gave up and returned to thinking about Dean, circling my memories of him like a curious bird, lingering upon his face, his eyes, his smile. Something was a little strange about most of the smiles he directed my way, something . . . false. When we discussed business, it was like he was proudly keeping a huge secret from me, and enjoyed watching me blunder around in the dark, unaware of where the light switch was. Hell, unaware there _was_ a light switch.

The plane boarded and took off; after a nine-million hour flight, suddenly I was back in DC again, where I belonged. The buildings stood tall, proud, and beautiful around me, like ancient sentinels protecting the city folk inside. DC was one hell of a lot prettier than war-torn Anchorage. As much as I wanted to savor the scenery, the thought of a nap in my own bed was too tempting. I could present myself to General Gray after a shower.

My apartment resembled a motel room. It had absolutely none of the usual things houses have, like insights into the characters of its tenants. I had no knick-knacks, no hobbies, nothing expensive or ornate. There were three rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen/living room with a tiny table in the corner, all completely devoid of personality. The walls were bare and white, the flooring cheap and simple. I lived a very quiet lifestyle when I was home, which wasn't often. The only perk to my lodgings was the close proximity to General Gray's office, roughly half an hour's walk.

I unlocked my front door and threw my bags on the decrepit couch. Inside, the air was stuffy and close. I hadn't been here for five of the hottest days in the year, and all that hot air had been trapped inside. It was scarcely cooler in here than outside. "Home sweet home," I sighed. Oh well. A cold shower would feel fantastic. I stripped off my jacket and made my way to the bathroom.

As soon as I stepped into my bedroom, I froze. Someone had been in here. I knew. At first I wasn't sure why; I dismissed the feeling as a combination of jetlag and the dimness of the room. I had drawn the blinds before I left, and the lamps beside my bed were off. Then I saw my boots. They were neatly placed together in the corner. I'd left them in that corner, but I knew I had just left them lying there discarded like trash.

I lost my temper, I'll admit. Instead of moving quietly, I stamped my feet. "Who the hell is in here?!" I bellowed.

There as a shifting noise from under the bed. I dropped to my stomach and threw the blankets up. Instead of a face, all I saw was a burst of white light. Something crunched; my face went numb for a second. Then the pain hit, a great throbbing mass that stamped out coherent thought. _Sonofabitch just broke my nose!_ Dimly, I saw the figure scrabbling out from the other side of the bed. It was definitely a male, and he was huge. His punch probably could have killed me.

"Oh no you don't!" I snarled. Finding nothing to hurl at him, I settled for yanking as hard as I could on the cheap rug. My assailant stumbled. I threw myself at his ankles. Tangled up in my waving arms, he fell forward. His head collided with the wall, leaving a huge dent in the plaster. His glasses flew off and shattered. Flashes of black plastic, like sparks from a ruptured firework, flew in all directions. He slid to the ground with a grunt of pain. I crawled on top of him and seized him by the back of the head, winding my fingers into his dark red hair. He bucked me off his back in a practiced movement; I slipped off his side instead, still entangled in his hair. Somehow I managed to get my foot up to kick him in the stomach.

All his breath exploded out of him in a harsh croak, yet he somehow managed to punch me, leaving me lying stunned beneath him with stars in my eyes. I turned over and tried to scramble out from under him. He had me pinned by his massive legs. He raised both mammoth fists and prepared to pound my face into oblivion. I wriggled out of the way just as he brought his hands down. The floor shook. I raised myself into a half-standing position and kicked him hard in the hip; it's a guarantee that it hurt me more than it hurt him, but it served as a distraction. When his torso turned in my direction, I kicked him again in the testicles. That was not something he had prepared for. He crumpled to the floor, momentarily stunned, lying on his stomach and holding himself.

I knelt beside him and flipped him over. Charon's bruised, bleeding face came into view.

"_Charon_?!" I breathed, stunned.

Charon snarled like a dog and slapped me. The blow was like a car crashing into my cheek. My head snapped to the side, and then Charon was trying to stand again. I ground my booted heel into his hand, then crawled over his writhing body to sit on his chest with my legs straddling his hips and my forearms pinning his hands. Charon stopped struggling and glared at me. His eyes were bright green and feral, ripe with hatred. Our faces were mere inches apart; I could have kissed him from my current position.

"What the _hell_ are you doing in my apartment?" I demanded. He shook his head slowly. I could already see the words forming on his lips, so I overrode him. "Don't you give me that 'talk to General Gray' bullshit, Charon."

"Talk to General Gray," he said stiffly.

I cursed. "Gray sent you?"

"Talk to General Gray."

"Dammit Charon!" I roared in his face. His eyes flickered from side to side, seeking an exit. I knew it was his programming to talk like this, and I suspected that he hated being screamed at as much as I hated screaming at him, but I couldn't help myself. It took all my self-control not to punch him. His body was as rigid as a brick wall, and causing him pain wouldn't get me any closer to an answer.

"Tell me!" I growled.

"I can't," Charon muttered. He wouldn't look me in the eye. An almost guilty expression broke through his mask.

"Nod, dammit!" I snapped. "Gray can't control your _head movements_, can he?!" Charon clenched his teeth. His eyes frantically renewed their darting search for an escape. I brought my face even closer to his. "Did Gray send you?" Charon's forehead nearly bumped mine when he nodded. Holy shit, he can respond. Grimly elated, I continued my questioning. "Did he tell you not to kill me?" Nod. "Did he want something in particular?" Charon growled in frustration, but he nodded. "Did he have you _plant_ something?" Charon shook his head. "Are you looking for . . . evidence?" Yes. "Of a crime?" Yes. "Does he think my investigation is inaccurate?" Yes. "Because of . . . Dean?" No. "Did he have Sal locked up to keep me compliant?"

Charon's eyes widened. Before I could react, he arched his lower body in a violent thrust and spilled me onto the floor. He grabbed me by the back of the neck, unaffected by my shrieked curses and wildly-swinging arms, and threw me on the bed. I bounced a few feet in the air and thumped my head on the floor on the way down. By the time I shook the stars out of my eyes, Charon was gone.

"_Son of a **bitch**_!" I screeched.

There was a thump on the wall. "Shut the hell up in there!" a voice from the adjacent apartment yelled.

"Go to hell," I whispered. How had they not noticed the sounds of a fight, but heard my profanity? I crawled onto the bed and threw a pillow over my head. After a few minutes of silent fuming, I dragged my sorry carcass to the bathroom.

My nose turned out to be badly bruised but not broken. Actually, it wasn't even bleeding much. Sore and sullen, I showered and dressed in clean clothes. I was halfway out the door before I realized, _If I see General Gray today, he may suspect I had a run-in with Charon. Then he'll punish the poor bastard. But I need to see General Gray! I need to talk to him! What the hell do I do?_

_You can't let him suspect anything,_ another voice spoke up. _You'll_ both _be in trouble._

I couldn't ignore that logic. I called instead, letting the General know I had arrived in DC. I kept my voice light and my attitude normal, like I hadn't just found his lapdog hiding under my bed like a kid avoiding its mother. He didn't sound suspicious; on the contrary, he heartily advised me to take a day off and relax. I didn't believe a word of it. He was just cheerful because he knew his spy had followed orders.

_That_ was an embarrassing thought. The idea of Charon pawing through my clothes . . . creepy. I forced the image out of my mind.

"Anything to report, Rhynes?" General Gray asked me.

I concentrated on the important points of the last few days. "Uh . . . well, I didn't buy any dresses yet, obviously . . . but oh! Yeah. There's a guy named Aaron Glass. He lives in Sioné. I think he was following me. He was on the train, and then he bolted when I said hello." It was shameful that I'd completely forgotten about Aaron until this point.

"Do you have any proof, Rhynes?" the General grumbled.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "No . . ."

"Then forget it. We're not going to pick him up on suspicious activity for riding a train."

The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop myself. "You certainly picked up Sal on suspicions, General." I clapped my hand over my traitorous mouth, but it was too late. The other end of the line went very quiet. My heart slamming in my chest, I whispered, "That was far out of line, Sir, I am sorry . . ."

"Go get some rest, Rhynes," he said. "And don't forget your meeting with RobCo on the second." He hung up.

I stared at the dead phone. "Screw you, General," I told it. The phone, thankfully, did not respond. Discouraged, I crawled back into bed and buried myself under the covers. I spent the rest of the day drinking, napping, and sulking.

The next day, the first of July, I rose in the relative cool of the early morning and walked to the office, taking a seat on a bench outside. The sun rose into a sky that was tinged yellow. It was a muggy, uncomfortable day. I was soon sweating through my clothes. I tied my hair back and forced myself to sit still. I didn't want to. It was still early, but Gray usually arrived 0600 sharp. I watched his black car pull into the parking lot. The general got out, closely followed by Charon. I met them on the path between the lot and the office building. "General Gray," I greeted, snapping to attention before him.

"Rhynes, it's early," he said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck, but as much as I wanted to squirm, I maintained the attention position. "Reporting in, Sir," I replied as politely as I could.

"Don't I usually call you?"

"Yes, Sir, but I wanted to give you an in-depth account of my last few days. Phone conversations don't allow for privacy." As I spoke to Gray, I studied Charon. He stood as stolid as ever, but I noticed the way he favored his right leg. I had, after all, given him a pretty solid kick. Probably left a nasty bruise. He also sported a faded but colorful black eye. I wondered how he'd explained that one away.

"Well, come on in then," said Gray. "Guess we're ignoring protocols now," he added under his breath. I pretended like I hadn't heard. He strode off to his office with me at his heels. Charon stood right behind me, leaning over my shoulder. I could feel his threatening form hovering behind me. I was all too aware that if Gray asked, Charon would snap my neck.

Secretaries, military officials, and operatives were already busy at work in the office. It was a strange, makeshift building, a figurative broom closet that Gray's investigative division had been stuffed into for lack of better lodgings. General Gray was also in charge of soldiers being trained in DC. His job entailed a lot of driving back and forth between terminals, yelling, staring at screens, and doing paperwork with Charon as his courier.

Stacy manned a tiny card table shunted into one corner of the miniscule outer office. It was piled high with papers much like Sal's desk in Sioné. When the three of us entered, she beamed and greeted me. I pulled her present from my shoulder-bag, much to her delight. I couldn't stick around to chat, though. I followed Gray into his office.

Charon stood beside the door with his arms folded behind his back. I imitated him as I stood before the desk. General Gray fired up his terminal, and then looked up at me with expressionless brown eyes. "So what have you discovered the last few days, Rhynes?" he asked.

I told him everything that had occurred, describing everything I could recall as thoroughly as I had been taught. I only omitted a few details, mostly having to do with Dean's lecherous attitude. Gray listened quietly, sucking on a smoldering cigar, occasionally interrupting to ask a clarifying question. For all he acted disinterested, I could tell he was intent on my every word.

At last, I ran out of words. General Gray said, "You've made no progress, Rhynes. You got your money and you have clearance. Why didn't you do what you needed to do? Why come back to DC so early?"

"I have a meeting with RobCo tomorrow, Sir," I said.

"You could have flown in tonight. Gone shopping with your singer friend today."

"Charon told me I had a ticket scheduled for this morning."

General Gray leaned around me and glowered at Charon. I didn't dare glance back to see Charon's reaction. "The ticket could have been used tomorrow," he said, more to his bodyguard than to me. "Government vouchers have no expiration."

Charon spoke up. "Begging your pardon, General, but you _did_ explicitly say that Miss Rhynes was to return to Washington yesterday."

"Well, the plan should have changed," Gray snapped. "You could have told her. I didn't need to tell you to use common sense, did I?"

Charon hesitated. I could sense him struggling with his next words. "Sir, the contract states that all orders—"

"Oh, shut up!" Charon fell silent. General Gray turned his attention to me. "Either way, you're here now. So consider this a day off. If you can get something done here, do it. You don't need _Mister Domino_ to purchase your clothes, do you?!"

I clenched my hands tightly into fists but kept them behind my back. "No, Sir," I said. My tone barely qualified as polite. "I believe I can get something."

The general growled under his breath and gnawed on the edge of his cigar. "I can't believe I authorized you to go to parties, Rhynes. I knew it was a bad idea to have women in my division."

My heart sank. I knew he didn't like me, but the comment stung anyway. "Sir?"

Gray leaned forward. "I'll know if you use any of that money for something unnecessary, Rhynes," he told me. "No cocktails, no expensive perfumes, no more high heels than you need. If you squander precious money from your government, I'll have you arrested. We're in the middle of a war, as you may know."

I thought back to days buried under ice, lying belly-down on an overhang above a suspected Chinese camp and staring through a sniper scope with frigid water seeping through my thin vest. I shivered. My toes went numb from snow that had long since melted. "Yes, Sir, I am aware," I said.

General Gray grunted and leaned back. "Get out of here, then." He leaned around me again to address his bodyguard. "Charon, you can speak now. Escort Agent Rhynes home. She lives close by. Rhynes, did you walk?"

"Yes, Sir." This was a surprise. He probably wanted someone to keep an eye on me.

"Well, then, walk home," said Gray.

"Sir," began Charon, "your defense—"

"There are a hundred soldiers in this damn building alone. Go on, get." Gray flapped his hands at us in a clear dismissal. "Keep her from walking in front of a bus or something."

Stacy could obviously see something was wrong when Charon and I left the office, but she kept her mouth shut. I saw her anxious expression as I stalked away with Charon gliding along behind me. I wished I could have reassured her. I tried to smile as I passed by.

I walked home under the warm sunshine. My boots beat a tattoo on the sidewalk. The sound pierced the day's stillness. _One, two. One, two_. Concentrating on the beat helped me ignore my shadow to some degree. His brooding silence was unnerving. To distract myself I watched the cars that passed by, and the soldiers who tramped down the streets in neat, orderly rows. A truck blew past us at least fifteen miles above the speed limit, coating us in a cloud of exhaust. Finally I could stand it no longer. "I can get home on my own, Charon," I said. "We're halfway already."

"General Gray told me to accompany you."

I groaned. "Come on, Charon. Please."

"General Gray told me to accompany you."

I spun around on my heels. Charon twitched. I grabbed him by the forearms and drew him close before he could withdraw. Shockingly, he didn't push me away. "What did you tell Gray?" I murmured. Up close, his black eye looked worse. "About your little visit?"

"I told him I walked into a door on the way out of your apartment," he said. "He believed it."

Satisfied, I nodded and released him. His skin was warm and tense. "Good enough, then," I said. I dug in my bag and produced his present. "Take this. It's yours. I did a little souvenir shopping. You might have noticed the trinket I bought Stacy." When I saw his doubtful expression, I added, "I didn't use any of the government's money." I dug out my check and waved it before him. "See, haven't even cashed it yet."

"Don't wave that around," he growled. The knife slid through his fingers and disappeared into his pocket. I knew he'd keep it out of sight.

I tucked the check in my own pocket. "Don't worry, Charon. I'm not stupid."

There was a pause. I could see Charon struggle to say something. I was touched. I knew part of his training dictated that silence was golden. "General Gray doesn't trust you," he finally said.

"I know Charon. But I'm not going to give him any reasons to be suspicious."

"Be careful, Leanne," he muttered.

"Since when do you care?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him.

Charon bit his lip and fidgeted. His hand crept to his collar, tugging on the carefully-pressed fabric. I had never seen him so . . . human. Guilt prickled me. "I'm sorry," I said, touching his arm, "I just . . . I didn't think you really liked me much."

"You are kind," he said. His eyes met mine for the first time today, and as clearly as he wanted to turn away, he didn't drop his gaze. "You treat me well. You treat me like I am a man instead of a killing machine. You are not afraid of me."

"Stacy's nicer to you than I am," I said. "She bakes you stuff. I can't bake."

Charon chuckled. There was a slight thump as my jaw hit the ground. Since when did Charon _laugh_?! "Stacy is a sweet woman," he agreed. A small, secretive smile grew on his lips. "You and her, always kind. But she gives me cookies."

This was, without a doubt, the most bizarre conversation I'd ever had with Charon. I'm pretty sure it's the only time we had ever talked about something other than work. I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I was afraid that if I made too big of a deal out of this breakthrough, Charon would hide in his shell. "I didn't know you liked cookies," I said. It was a pathetic response, but my mind was still scrambling.

His smile deepened. "We are going somewhere, are we not?" he asked.

I offered a sweeping bow, hoping I captured at least some of Dean's easy grace instead of my typical awkwardness. "Lead on, my valiant trailblazer," I said.

We walked along side-by-side, occasionally chatting about non-work-related subjects. It was strange how comfortable I felt with the big, brooding bodyguard. He actually proved to be _funny_, very sarcastic and insightful. I was cautious about what I said to him, knowing that his ears were recording devices played back at General Gray's convenience. Only upon our arrival at my door did Charon salute and bid me farewell.

The rest of the day was mine to waste. I cashed my check and bought what I needed at a local boutique. Hopefully Dean would approve. I think I'd seen the Mayor's wife wearing something like one of my new casual suits. When I returned home I found a surprise: a little chipped pot full of colorful, fragrant flowers on my doorstep. _Well_, I thought, gathering up the pot, _at least he didn't break into the house and leave them on my table._

My appointment with RobCo awaited me in the morning, and the Sierra Madre loomed on the horizon of my life. Today, however, I needed to dust off my cook book and make the best damn cookies Charon had ever eaten.

* * *

**Most excellent. I did things and made progress. Leave a review? :)**


	5. Chapter 5

Cool. This is getting done and stuff.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**July 2, 2077:**

"Please sit, Miss Rhynes."

The office was plain and dim, lit by humming fluorescents that tinted everything a cool blue-white. I sat in a stiff chair before a metal desk. The man behind the desk, a doctor, was thin and blond, handsome in a way. He had a pair of rimless glasses perched on the edge of his nose. There were papers in his hand.

My leg itched beneath my nylons. I resisted the urge to scratch. Today was a day of disagreeable situations, and I didn't dare do anything that would embarrass my superiors. Even my clothes were chosen to please. I had worn a plain, dark blue suit with a matching hat, and gloves. But when I looked down at myself now, all I saw was a gray jumpsuit. The nylons I thought I'd been wearing were nowhere to be found.

The doctor set down the papers and adjusted his glasses. "You are a fit subject, Miss Rhynes," he told me. "Your IQ is sufficient, and you performed well in the logic tests."

I didn't exactly know what he was talking about. I concentrated hard, willing the thoughts to come to me. The lights above my head seemed too bright. I wished I could go to sleep. They had given me drugs earlier, an "enhancement cocktail," and then they had attached patches to my head. After that came questions, scenarios, situations, programs, drills. Pictures flickered across the dull, dark surface of my brain.

"What happened to me?" I slurred.

The doctor's smile was icy and pitiless. He looked at me as though I were a drooling infant that had been thrust into his lap. His eyes were pale blue-gray. I shivered. I didn't like him. He was only pretending to be polite. My drugged slowness offended him. I didn't have to be sober to figure that out. "You went through a test," he said smoothly, "the drugs will wear off in a few hours. You're going to have to sleep here for observation. Then you can get dressed and go home."

I nodded, as if I understood. The motion made my head swim. "Why . . . why is this happening?"

"You agreed to it, Miss Rhynes," said the doctor sternly. Patrick was his name, if my memory served. "You will be an excellent addition to the AI program."

My voice; that was it. They were going to use my voice and my thought process to build a "rationality core," a program that would analyze situations with the help of a computer and determine courses of action in any given situation. Soldiers on the front lines, busy with guns, could use it in addition to RobCo's Pip-Boys and VATS Targeting System to help them run and take cover as well as aim. Scientists at the Big MT were working on a type of armor that had a similar program imbedded in it.

My voice and mind would be used in synths. I was going to be an assistance database for an android.

As my mind crept toward this conclusion, I realized that Dr. Patrick was speaking. "Your serial numbers are LR120A to LR130Z," he said. "The chips will be used in a new race of supersoldiers. You're doing your country proud, Miss Rhynes."

He must have known that would motivate me. "Just doing my duty, Sir," I said with a little more coherence. "God bless America."

Dr. Patrick nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes. Now. You can go."

I smiled pleasantly and remained in my chair with my hands in my lap. I had no idea how to stand up.

Dr. Patrick sighed. "Your general sent you someone to help." He nodded to someone behind me.

"Come on, Rhynes," said a voice I dimly recognized. A warm pair of hands took my forearms and carefully levered me out of the chair. I stood on watery legs and stumbled toward the door. Colors faded into a smear of meaningless gray. The door swam before my eyes. I felt myself falling.

Then everything was dark.

It stayed dark for a long time.

-()-

"De-an?"

The word cracked on the way out of my mouth. My lips felt thick and rubbery. My tongue had grown a light cover of fur. I did not dare open my eyes.

"I am not Dean," said a male voice close to my ear.

His words made very little sense. Slowly, I put them together, seeking their meaning. I. Am. Not. Dean. Yes, but who then?

A word floated to the top of my mind like a bubble rising to the surface of a black lake. "Oh. Charon. Sorry."

A rustle of cloth. I opened my eyes. The ceiling was white. I tried to turn my stiff neck. Charon loomed over the bed. He was truly a giant. "What do you need?" he asked, sounding almost gentle.

I licked my lips. "Water, please," I whispered.

"As you wish." Charon left my field of vision and returned with a bottle. "Sit up, please."

I attempted to do as he commanded, but my head felt too heavy to lift. My arms wouldn't bear my weight. I hadn't felt this powerless since I was seven, lying in a hospital bed with an endless fever. "I can't."

"You can sit up, Leanne." Still that strange gentleness. I wondered if I was dead. Charon slid a hand behind my back and helped me sit up. Then he gave me the bottle.

The cold water felt like heaven on my dusty mouth. I drank greedily. Charon took the bottle and lowered me back down. The fussy way he arranged my pillow and blanket made me crack a reluctant smile that felt odd on my face. "Thank you," I said.

Charon's eyes glittered. "I liked your cookies," he said. He sat in a folding chair beside my cot and crossed his arms.

I tried to grin. It hurt, but what the hell. For the look of pleasure on Charon's face, I'd bear the discomfort gladly. "Charon, what did the RobCo people give me?"

"Drugs," he said.

I wrinkled my nose. "That's helpful. What kind of drugs?"

Charon shrugged. I cursed low under my breath. Whatever potion they had fed me, it also gave me the world's worst hangover. "Can I go home now?" I asked.

"Yes." Charon stood up. "Your clothes." He pointed to the bedside table. "I will find a doctor to discharge you."

Twenty minutes later I was free of the RobCo facility; forty-five minutes and I was home with a cup of strong coffee and a bottle of mysterious green pills from Dr. Patrick. At my insistence, Charon made himself a bed on the couch. It was two in the morning. He was to stay with me until the next day and evaluate my condition. Gray's orders.

Unable to sleep, I sat on the couch and turned on the TV. There was nothing of interest on the channels but a repeat of Sal's arrest. I watched this listlessly with Charon sitting beside me. He could not sleep either, or so he claimed.

The reporter onscreen faded away and the Fancy Lads Snack Cakes commercial came on. I decided I couldn't stand watching any more television. A thought was creeping around the most distant and vague part of my mind, trapped in the cloud of numbness that RobCo's drug cocktail had enveloped me in. "Charon?" I asked hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Why are you here?"

Charon didn't move. "General Gray ordered it."

"Why, though? To keep an eye on me?"

I felt Charon stiffen. A muscle in his jaw, highlighted by the glow of the television, twitched. I held my breath and prayed for a response. "Your appointment was important. You are important. Everything has happened for a reason."

This was more inscrutable than I could fathom right now. "Yeah, but I'm a woman."

"Yes, but . . ." Charon struggled to say something. I could see him tearing himself in two: the man he wanted to be fighting against the man he had to be. "Do you know why you were hired?" he blurted out.

"Because I was useless in Anchorage?" I suggested. My heart beat hard in my chest. Charon was going to give me answers?

"Why you were . . . _drafted_." Charon shuddered. Alarmed, I put an arm around him. I sought only to comfort him, but he drew away as though I had struck him. I caught a glimpse of his indignant, desperate eyes before he ducked his head, hiding his face in shadow. His entire body was rigid, and his hands trembled in their tight fists. I tensed, ready to dodge a punch if need be.

Instead, a cold and bitter voice emerged from his mouth. "Good night, Miss Rhynes."

Taking this as a dismissal, I went to my room.

Charon deemed me healthy the next morning and left without saying goodbye. Tired and grumpy, I stayed at home and took my pills. A summer storm had blown its way into DC overnight, dumping torrents of frigid rain into the concrete sluiceways and dirt-choked storm drains. The TV blared on and on, telling me the same old news. Gas prices were on the rise; the New Plague was busily destroying Denver; the government was silent on all issues within the country. People were terrified, everyone was dying. Same old terror, same old bloodshed. Frustrated, I retreated to my bedroom. The silence of my apartment drove me crazy. It did nothing to quiet my distracted thoughts.

Why _had_ I been hired? Surely it was more important for me to be in Anchorage, chasing the Reds out of their hideouts and into the line of fire. Why me? Why not someone qualified?

I crawled under my bed and withdrew an old box. It was a conglomeration of random trash I had acquired during my childhood. My younger brother, Jacob, had saved my box for me when I was drafted. There was a dried corsage from a long-ago prom I barely remembered, wrapped in a piece of red tissue. That was my favorite item. When I unearthed it beneath my old diploma and graduation photographs, I lingered upon it, tracing the browning petals with my fingers. It had been a beautiful thing, and Dean had been so pleased at my excitement over it.

Other items passed through my hands, junk without value except to me. Finally, I came to my leather-bound journal, a record of my days in Anchorage. I had traded two packs of cigarettes and a pair of gloves for it. There were entries from the previous owner, who had tried his hand at journaling and decided it was too time-consuming. He died two days later, sprawled in the mud with a sniper's bullet in what remained of his head. I had never been one for writing, but something in me compelled me to keep a record of this unique time in my life. No other woman could say they'd been on the Alaskan front line.

I flipped open the journal and began to read.

** December 26, 2076:**

Anchorage is a beautiful place. Even through the smoke and death and blood, I had to appreciate the loveliness. Christmas was a loud affair, full of explosions and dead soldiers. We lost seventeen that day. Eight more lay in cots downstairs. The bunker was frigid. Stein, the medic, said that if we didn't get the power back on soon, everyone would lose some limbs. Morgan had a serious case of frostbite, and his poor fingers are too stiff to pull the trigger. The sniper, Redding, could barely move. We were all paralyzed there. There was no money, no resources, and only a handful of bullets to go around.

Staff Sergeant Miller woke me that afternoon in a less-than-gentle fashion. He banged on the metal door to my bunkroom, turning the whole building into a concert hall. "Rhynes! Rhynes! Get your ass out here on the double!"

I crawled out of my cocoon of thin blankets in a bra and shorts, the approved sleepwear for women in the army. My skin was already beaded with goose bumps, and the freezing draft that hit my bare skin sent shivers racking along my body. I hadn't been warm in weeks.

I put my bare feet on the concrete. I bit back a whimper when my toes cramped from the intense cold. Staff Sergeant Miller wouldn't be yelling at me so urgently unless it was important. And he had said to come on the double. I crossed the room at a dead run and threw open the door.

Staff Sergeant Miller stood in the hall. He was a short, brawny man made even bulkier by the fur-collared greatcoat buttoned up to his throat. His mouth was open to speak, but whatever he had to say died on his lips. I snapped to attention and stood before him, barefoot, barely clothed, ready for action. He gaped at me like a fish. I felt my cheeks reddening, but I didn't dare move to cover myself.

"My God, Rhynes," he said, "I didn't know you were uh . . . busy."

"I was asleep, Sir," I said. "My rack time is four to ten."

"I can see that." Miller cleared his throat. I was amused to see little spots of color in his cheeks. It seemed I'd startled a little bit of humanity into him. "Go get dressed, Rhynes, I can't talk to you when you look like that."

I obeyed as quickly as possible, throwing on as many layers as I could wear and still move comfortably in. I presented myself to my staff sergeant again. Thankfully he had composed himself. He looked me up and down. There was no emotion in his face. "Very good." He cleared his throat. "You're being reassigned, Rhynes," he said bluntly.

My heart sank. I could feel it beating somewhere in my boots, but the sensation was distant. "Sir?" I asked, praying my voice didn't tremble.

"Washington called. I have no idea how. _They_ said the HAMs were out." The words came out in a growl. There was no love lost between Anchorage soldiers and the DC coordinators. They had staffed this place with under-qualified grunts, shipped us subpar weapons and supplies, and screwed us out of ammo and armor alike, complaining about a lack of funds and an inventory mix-up. "I got their message loud and clear. You're the only woman here, Rhynes. They want you."

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" I asked.

Miller grunted. "Yeah, yeah."

"Do you know _why_?"

"They said they want you to be a part of an investigative unit based out of DC. It's one hell of an opportunity. Don't you dare complain about it. You'll be warm and fed. You'll get out of the bunkers, and hopefully you'll never have to see another Red. There's a chopper coming at—" he checked his watch, "2100 hours."

"How are they going to get a chopper in?" I wondered aloud.

"They're Washington," was Miller's grunted response. "They'll figure it out. Sometimes I think they want us to fail up here. Like it's some huge social experiment."

"Sir?" I asked, startled.

"Hmm?" Miller shook his head. "Sorry. My uh . . . my mouth ran away for a moment. My apologies."

Miller's feelings had to be strong, for him to break professionalism and express an opinion to an inferior. I cleared my throat and rubbed my numb hands together. "Might I say, Sir," I said, "it's been an honor to serve here in Anchorage with you."

Miller offered his hand. "It's been my pleasure," he said. "You're one hell of a soldier, Rhynes. And don't think that this reassignment means otherwise."

These were the kindest words anyone had spoken to me since I said my goodbyes in Sioné the last time I'd been there. We shook hands, he bid me goodbye, and I went back to my bed to gather my few belongings.

The chopper took off under cover of darkness, bound for the nearby checkpoint, and then, from there, to the docks. No Vertibirds for us here in the fields of frozen blood. The ride was short and uneventful. I saw campfires below us, Red camps, but they weren't firing on us.

On the ground, I was bundled into a waiting transport, sitting beside a thin man in a trench coat. His blonde hair was combed neatly and smoothed down. He looked like a runway model compared to some of the haggard soldiers I'd seen in the bunkers. When I slammed the door shut, he turned his head slightly to look at me.

I tried to smile. I wanted to make friends with this fellow. We had a long journey ahead of us, and it would do no good if I upset him. "Leanne," I said, offering my purple-tinged hand. I was still freezing, though the car's roaring heater sent out billowing gusts of warmth. Trickles of heat raced across my flesh. I felt like a Popsicle must feel when it melts. An Army-cicle.

He shook my hand. "John Knowles. Good to see you, Corporal Rhynes."

"Well, Mister Knowles, can you tell me what the hell is going on?" I asked, only half-joking.

He shook his head. "Regretfully, Corporal Rhynes, I can tell you very little. It's not my place to say anything yet. There's a man in Washington you're going to need to talk to. He has all the answers. I'm just here as a glorified greeter and travel guide."

I could live with that. The truck started to roll, bound for the transport ship. I slept through most of the trip, lulled by the heat and motion. When we arrived at the dock, John gently shook me awake and held the door open while I crawled out, dragging my pack behind me.

The dock was full of Navy fellows in heavy coats and rubber boots. They ushered John and me onto the boat and sent us on our merry way. Only when we retreated into a minuscule cabin did John remove his coat and toss it over a chair. Underneath the coat he wore several layers of thick flannel.

I sat on one of the uncomfortable aluminum chairs. There were two in the cabin, placed so closely together that my knees bumped against John's when he too sat down. Other than the chairs, a tiny table, and a bare naval cot, the room was empty. We talked for a little while, with John filling me in on a few bare details of my new job. The investigative unit in Washington DC whose employees were a mix of civilians and enlisted, funded by the government. It was even directed by an Army general, Jameson Gray. I wouldn't be a cop. I wouldn't drive an ugly car and chase down drunks. My assignments would be more complex, and dangerous.

"I'm going to be a super-secret agent, huh?" I joked when John was done telling me what he knew.

There was something bizarre about his smile. "Something like that," he agreed.

I frowned. "What do you mean?" I asked.

He stood up and told me to get some rest, then left me alone in the cabin. The next morning, he drove me to my new apartment, gave me General Gray's office address, and drove away. I never saw him again.

Two days later I walked into General Gray's office for the first time, dressed in my finest uniform. There I met Stacy, who asked me eager questions about Anchorage and my other posts while I waited to be spoken to. I liked Stacy immediately. I hadn't really ever made friends with a woman. Most of the girls in Sioné avoided me, because they were proper and I wasn't. Stacy was the sweetest person I'd met in a long time.

When it was time for my interview Stacy directed me into a small conference room just outside the outer office. I entered the windowless room and hovered in the doorway. A huge man sat perfectly still on the far end of the table. He was tall, long in the arm and leg, with a lean face and neatly-combed auburn hair. He wore no uniform, only a plain black t-shirt and jeans tucked into boots. I couldn't help but stare. He was even more ripped than the guys in the bunkers.

Oblivious to my wandering eyes, he took a briefcase from under the table and withdrew a folder. Only then did he glance up at me. There was even less emotion in his bright green eyes than in Miller's. He looked almost like a stone man, all hard muscle and blank expression. "Corporal Rhynes?" he said.

"Leanne," I told him, offering my hand.

He did not shake my hand. I lowered it, embarrassed. Apparently not a social person. Awkwardly I shifted from foot to foot, waiting in silence for something to happen.

"Charon," the man said finally. Startled, I met his eyes. It was a feeble attempt at civility, but I wanted to make a good impression. His manner had thrown me off entirely. He glared back at me.

"Charon . . .?" I wheedled.

"Just Charon."

"Well, 'Just Charon,'" I said with a faint smile, "can you perhaps tell me what the hell is going on?"

"No."

I frowned. "Sir, please—"

"I am not a sir." He said it with such sudden ferocity that I actually flinched. His tone remained even, and he did not raise his voice, but the words were so forceful and weighty that I almost felt them slap me in the face. "Sit, please." I sat down and folded my hands in my lap, watching him warily.

Up close, he was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with a lantern jaw and high cheekbones. His olive skin was smooth and tightly drawn across his face, giving him a gaunt appearance. He withdrew a piece of paper from the manila folder. "Your reassignment," he said. "You will report to General Jameson Gray." The paper slid from his hands and whispered across the desk, coming to rest before me. Charon handed me a pen. "Sign."

Charon may not have been my superior, but when someone as authoritative as he was told me to do something, I followed through without question. Some of it was training, and some of it was that aggressive pro-American bullshit they'd fed us in boot camp. When I was a kid I was openly defiant of my teachers and parents. Perhaps as an adult I was trying to make up for all the trouble and humiliation I'd burdened my mother with when I was young. I completed my signature and handed Charon the paper. The table was so small I thumped my elbow against his every time I moved. He didn't seem to mind.

"What did I just sign?" I asked. Of course I had elected to not skim the paragraphs of text before I signed.

"That was your discharge form," he said. "Congratulations, Miss Rhynes, you're no longer a member of the United States Army."

A wave of dread and horror crashed into me, shaking me to my core. The world I had assumed to be concrete and stable spun on its axis and shattered my remaining confidence. The military had been my life for six years. I knew nothing about the world outside of it. My stomach dropped; for a second I was terrified I'd be sick. "What?!" I cried. Questions bounced around my skull. Discharged from the Army? Why? What would happen to me now?

Charon didn't flinch. "Your six years of service have been quite impressive, Miss Rhynes, and I am aware that promotions were slim, especially in your area. You have fought admirably and saved countless American lives. You have been a credit to your country, to your military, and to your gender." He sounded as though he had invisible cue-cards laid out in front of him. "But we need you in DC on an investigation. You are technically still attached to the military. You just don't have a rank."

"Must be pretty damn important to discharge me _that_ quickly," I grumbled, trying to pretend my heart wasn't pounding. I wasn't discharged? But I had no rank? How and why would they do that? I could feel myself tremble; my muscles felt like they had been filled with electricity. I wanted to stand up and run from the room, back to Anchorage. At least I knew my place there.

Charon drew a photo out of the folder. Holding it between two fingers, he flicked it across the table. I caught it right before it slid off the side. The photo was of a black man, bald, with a scar across one cheek. He wore an Army uniform. KOEHLER, read the patch on his chest. I'd never seen the name before, but I knew who he was. Dread settled in my belly like a lead weight.

"Do you know this man?"

I looked up into Charon's impassive eyes. _How much does he know? _I wondered. Could I pass it off? Say I didn't have any idea who he was? Could I get away from this without incriminating myself? It was better to admit the truth, because I couldn't remember any of the lies I cared to tell. But it was dangerous.

"I do know him," I admitted. "We lived in the same town. Sioné, in Kansas. Uh, Plains Commonwealth. He uh, he sold drugs, or if you didn't have an ID he'd sell you cigarettes and beer at a price. Had a whole delivery system going on, with couriers and messengers, and he paid them too. Shit wages, obviously, but for bored teenagers . . . good money."

"Were you ever a paid employee of this man?"

I swallowed hard. "No, sir."

"Charon."

"No, Charon."

"Did you ever purchase illegal drugs from him?"

There it was, the question I had dreaded. Illegal drug use couldn't be prosecuted at this point in time, but it could certainly affect my career. I didn't need anyone watching me even more closely than they already did. "Yes, Charon," I whispered, "Dee and Sal and me, we uh . . . we smoked some grass a couple times. And we bought cigarettes and beer."

"I see."

I fidgeted in my chair while Charon paused to write something in the file. "Mister Charon," I blurted out, "please, it was a long time ago—"

"The information will not be used against you, Miss Rhynes," Charon interrupted. "There is no need to worry. It's not even of particular interest. I can be discreet."

I felt a tiny bit of my tension melt away. "O-okay," I stammered. "Thanks."

"Of course." Writing finished, Charon set down his pen and looked at me expectantly. "Tell me about your interactions with this man, Miss Rhynes."

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything you care to tell me."

I decided to keep it short and simple. The more I said, the more secrets I might reveal. "Well, he was the local dealer. Everybody knew, even the cops. They just didn't do anything about it. People would fill up his apartment from noon till two AM, partying and smoking and talking. The cops would occasionally run small busts, but the Major—that's what we called him—the Major was always gone. He was smart. Really smart. Ex-Army. He got recalled to duty at the same time I was drafted."

"Did you ever spend time with him?"

I scratched at the surface of the desk with my fingers. Beginning was the hardest part. Reminding myself to choose my words carefully, I admitted, "I smoked a cigarette or two with him. He liked me a little, but he liked Dee more." I thought about the Major's greasy smile and his fingers, yellowed with nicotine, passing me a cigarette from a battered pack. "He always wanted something."

"And who is Dee?" asked Charon.

"Oh, sorry." My face was getting red. "Uh, his real name is Dean. You may know him now that he's famous. He's got his name up in lights and everything. He's Dean Domino, now. But when I knew him he was Dee and nothing more. My best friend. Him and me and Salvatore Marino palled around a lot."

"And your friends? What were your experiences with them?"

I was lost in a mental bog, unable to make sense of what was happening. This was certainly a dream. Charon's interests seemed entirely misguided, too random to be real. No one hired an employee based on the good times she had with her friends. "Sal and Dee?" I asked suspiciously. Charon nodded. "Sal was _fun_. Always cracking jokes. He kept us feeling good and he was great to talk to when I was upset. I could always count on him. Dee was . . . charismatic. Mysterious. We knew he was destined for stardom."

Charon wrote something down. The scratching of the pen on the rough paper was irritating, digging into my ears. I bit my lip until I tasted blood.

"Look, Charon," I said, "my friends and I were three misfit losers that hung together because nobody else liked us. We weren't involved in some secret drug trade. I lost contact with the Major and with Sal and Dee when I got drafted. I've got no connections. I'm no one important."

Charon closed the file. His eyes met mine. "Miss Rhynes," he said politely, "I think you're precisely who we're looking for. Welcome aboard." He offered me his hand. I shook.

**July 3, 2077:**

I closed the journal and set it back in its box. Useless except for nostalgia. But that was interesting, that thing about the social experiments. It was worthy of pondering.

I'd almost forgotten about John Knowles, the handsome blonde from the car. He probably could have given me more info, but he was reluctant. It was as if Gray and his company wanted to keep me in the dark. Charon had been unwilling to shed light on the situation too. To this day, I still knew very little about Philip Koehler and what the government wanted from him. I didn't even know the Major all that well. He was just someone to talk to, a host who offered a safe place to smoke and have a beer without the parents finding out. I didn't even like the guy. Why did they want me?

It was all so much like a stupid suspense novel. Were these people just screwing with me? It wasn't a novel; it was my goddamn little life, as shitty as it was. I was being dragged around by the nose.

Of all the confusing things in my life, there was one thing I was certain about. Most of the people I'd grown to care for in Anchorage were dead. Staff Sergeant Miller died four days after I came to DC. I'd been unpacking my belongings and enjoying a hot cup of coffee when I got the news. My unit chased Reds out of the foxholes and things got bloody. Miller was shot in the throat. Redding and Morgan also died. Stein, the medic, had a fatal heart attack just as things were beginning to calm down.

An unbearable weariness crushed my heart. Tears threatened. Why was Sal in prison? To keep me quiet? Why did Gray suspect me? I'd never been close to the Reds. I had to kill them, for God's sake! I couldn't get these thoughts out of my head. It was driving me mad. Wiping my face with an impatient hand, I threw myself down onto the bed and gave up for the day. Television, while worrying, would at least serve as a distraction.

When I turned on the TV, the first thing I saw was a recording of Dean performing at the Fronds to a finely-dressed audience, followed by an ad that encouraged me to begin again at the Sierra Madre Casino.

* * *

I did work! Now, review? Please?


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